


illuminate the heart

by lilabut



Series: illuminate the heart [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Blood and Injury, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Sexual Content, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 54,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5900419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilabut/pseuds/lilabut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever had happened between them, it most definitely was not supposed to <i>mean</i> anything. The pink plus sign, however, tells a different story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. week one.

**Author's Note:**

> Story title is taken from _Overture_ by Sleeping at Last.

it starts  
with our eyes well acquainted  
with the darkness  
the mind was made to illuminate the heart

 _Overture_ , Sleeping at Last

 

**week one.**

 

 _Fuck_ , his rough grunt is muffled against the side of her neck, the vibrations humming through her body from the tip of her toes all the way up to her skull, raising the small hairs at the back of her neck. His fingertips are digging into the bared skin of her hips deftly, holding her still against him. Lips skimming along her pulse point where it rages.

 

Briefly, Carol wonders how they ended up like this, entangled, sweaty, panting against each other, but then he slides into her, and all thought evaporates. He pushes forward slowly, much too slowly for whatever this is they are doing. Savoring the moment. It does not seem right, not when the edge of her kitchen table is digging into the back of her thighs, not when her sundress is bunched up at her waist, underwear pulled almost lazily to the side.

 

It feels too good though, the way he moves with purpose, and when he is finally all the way inside her, Carol can feel him trembling. She clutches his arms, mirroring the rough pressure of his fingers on her hips, allowing a raspy moan to break free.

 

He remains still for too long, breathing raggedly against her oversensitive skin, dampening it with each exhale that causes her to shudder. Every nerve ending in her body seems raw and exposed, and she knows he needs to move, needs to ease the tension that is coiling inside of her so tightly she begins to fear the moment it snaps and releases.

 

 _Daryl_ , she encourages him, her voice husky, and that seems to flick a switch. His lips find hers as he starts moving, still tasting like the lasagna she had basically force-fed him earlier. Carol gives it no second thought, not when his lips are soft and warm, not when he moves inside of her – a little sloppy, a little too rough and then a little too slow again, a mess that burns and blazes.

 

There is no room for thought in her mind when his hand moves from her hips to slide between them, a calloused palm ghosting over her until his fingers find their goal. She moans into his mouth, grips him around the waist, ankles crossing behind the small of his back, pulling him so close that her still covered breasts are pressed into his chest, and so deep that she feels herself rocking backwards on the table.

 

This is not like her. And something tells her that this is not like him, either. But as his finger begins to circle her, her name falling from his lips in a breathy groan, she only holds on tighter. If he suddenly came to his senses now, if he stopped for any reason at all, Carol decides she would run him over with her car a second time, and properly this time.

 

* * *

 

 _I'm so, so sorry_ , Carol repeats for what feels like the dozenth time, hands fumbling across his arms and shoulders, fingers ghosting across his marred cheek as she pushes him towards her front door.

 

 _'m fine_ , he insists, turning his face away from her slightly as she reaches out for his cheek. Carol quickly drops her hand, feeling like she stepped over an invisible line. The thought almost makes her laugh, if it weren't for the panic that settles deeply in her guts. The last thing she needs right now is for him to press charges.

 

 

It is just her luck. Coming home from an early shift at work, Sophia over with the Grimes for a log overdue sleepover. Her back aching, arms tired, temples suffering from a dull throbbing pain. All day, she had been looking forward to an evening for herself, curled up on the couch with a book and a glass of iced tea, maybe even daring to spread out a blanket in the back yard and allow the early summer heat to kiss her pale skin.

 

Her mind had been filled with the promise of the chance to unwind, completely distracting her. Pulling onto her street, she had hummed along to the song on the radio, a cheery tune that felt foreign to her. Being happy was not something she took for granted, it was not an emotion she had been very familiar with over the last few years. The last decade, really.

 

But to hum along to some mindless tune, fingers drumming against the wheel, she had felt happy. The blue house she called her own came into view, white shutters pulled open, and she could not wait to let the afternoon breeze flood through all the rooms, watch the curtains dance in the wind.

 

And then she had turned the wheel, pulling into her gravel driveway, and her heart stopped beating. Right there in front of her was a man, eyes wide in terror, and within a mere breadth of a second, she pulled the wheel in the other direction, hearing the angry crunch of pebbles beneath the tires, and from her peripheral vision, saw the man leaping out of the way.

 

Of course this would happen to her. Now that her life is finally settling down, that she is beginning to maintain a routine that works for her and, most importantly, for Sophia, she goes ahead and kills some poor soul enjoying an afternoon walk.

 

Only it is not just any poor soul. As she scrambles out of her car, ignoring the trenches in the grass where her tires have dug into the earth, she sees the man she almost hit. He is struggling back onto his feet, clearly having jumped in the opposite direction. Beneath dark, shaggy hair, she can see blood on his cheek, and she crosses the distance in what feels like two strides.

 

 _Oh God, I am so sorry_ , she blurts out, her heart still beating furiously, and she can only imagine how awful the poor man must feel. Then, as she comes to a skittering halt before him, she recognizes him.

 

Out of all the people she could have nearly killed, she chose Daryl Dixon.

 

 

Now, despite his protests and reassurances that he is _fine_ , that the scratches on his cheeks are _nothin'_ , Carol insists on taking him inside to clean the wound, to allow him to sit down and catch his breath. Her hands fumble with the keys as she opens the front door, and she smiles kindly at Daryl, nodding in the direction of the small hallway.

 

He sighs, apparently tired of evading her efforts to make right of her mistake, and steps inside, dutifully dusting off his shoes on the doormat, the once brightly colored balloons now fading away.

 

 _You can sit over there in the kitchen, I'll just get my things_ , Carol explains, pointing vaguely towards the small kitchen as she kicks the front door shut behind her. Daryl only nods, his hand rubbing his neck, and Carol feels the panic inside her stirring even more.

 

With trembling fingers and knees that threaten to turn into liquid fear beneath her, she walks over to the bathroom to grab some supplies.

 

She can not say that she knows Daryl Dixon very well. This is a small town, and everybody sort of knows everybody. And everybody especially knows the Dixons.

 

Will Dixon, the town drunk. He is dead, she thinks, vaguely remembers some hunting accident that made the papers years ago. His wife, also too keen on alcohol, burned away to nothing in a house fire she can still recall. Merle Dixon and all his various run ins with the police. Carol has no idea where he is, has not heard of him being in town for at least four years.

 

And then there is Daryl, the youngest. They went to school together, all those years ago, but she barely remembers him actually _being_ there. He always kept to himself. She guesses he does the same now, keeping a low profile in the shadow of his family's reputation. As far as she knows, he has been working in Horvath's Garage since they graduated. Once, years ago, she had taken Ed's car there after a fender bender that had not been her fault. That had not spared her the punishment, though. Thinking back on it, she remembers seeing Daryl there, quiet and concentrated.

 

 _Mr Dixon, right?_ she asks carefully as she walks into the kitchen, dropping the contents of her medical cabinet onto the table. Daryl avoids direct eye contact, she notices, sitting on the very edge of the chair. Ready to bolt.

 

 _Daryl_ , he replies, looking down at the pile of medical supplies. _You a doctor?_

 

She smiles at that, and it does not matter that he can not see it. _Nurse_ , she corrects him, feeling a miniscule flicker of hope blooming inside of her. He does not seem angry at her, and she will take that as a positive sign. _I'm Carol._

 

 _Yeah, I know_ , he looks up at her then, and she guesses she must look a little baffled because he quickly adds _Remember from school_. She smiles then, feeling more and more at ease that he might not press charges.

 

 _I really am sorry, I wasn't looking_ , she apologizes again, suddenly feeling awkward standing in front of him with empty hands.

 

 _We're good_ , he states, waving his own hand.

 

The scratch on his cheek is very superficial, but she still takes her time, cleans it meticulously, working in a silence that is much more comforting than she would like to admit. The clock on the wall ticks, and she notices Daryl's feet tapping along to the rhythm, his hands grabbing his thighs. He looks almost nervous, she muses, carefully tucking strands of unruly hair behind his ear to give herself more space.

 

 

 _Didn't know ya had a kid_ , Daryl says nonchalantly as Carol throws blood-stained cotton into the trash, and she turns towards him. He's pointing at the framed pictures on the opposite wall, Sophia's face beaming from almost every single one of them.

 

 _Sophia_ , she tells him with the proud grin she can never contain. _She's going to be six next month._ He smiles, and she is surprised when she catches herself thinking how much softer he looks when he does it. Taken aback by her own thoughts, she quickly concentrates on washing her hands, scrubbing away and watching the soapy water run down the drain.

 

She is not blind. Something about him is oddly intriguing, and she can not quite put her finger on what it is. Drying off her hands, she watches him for a brief moment, standing there in the middle of her kitchen like a lost dog, eyes roaming the place, hands buried in the pockets of his jeans.

 

 _You should eat something_ , she suddenly suggests, not quick enough to stop herself from speaking. _I have some lasagna left over, I could warm it up for you._

 

For a moment, he stares at her with a confused expression on his face, then he shakes his head. _Don't have t' bribe me. I won't go to the cops._ He underlines his statement with another smile, but he makes no move towards the door, either.

 

Carol feels a heavy weight lifting off her shoulders, and Daryl chuckles when she can not stop herself from sighing rather loudly. _Thank you_ , she manages to breathe out, dropping the kitchen towel onto the counter.

 

But then Daryl nods, turning towards the door, and something akin to panic begins to rouse inside her chest against her better judgment. _It wasn't a bribe, though. You should still eat_ , she calls after him, and he stops halfway through the door. _I make an excellent lasagna._

 

 

Talking to Daryl turns out to be a lot easier than she might have thought. Not that she has wondered about it much. He is pleasant company when he warms up, she notes, even though he barely gives away anything about himself. Despite the occasional quip about work, he keeps himself closed off. So, eventually, they reach Carol's least favorite subject of all: Ed.

 

 _Remember back in senior year?_ Daryl chuckles, dumping his empty plate on top of hers in the sink. _We were paired up for some project, an' he was there watchin' us the whole time._

 

The memory, one that had been buried so deeply that Carol did not even know she still had it, is suddenly sharp and vivid in her mind, and she can not help the small burst of laughter that escapes her. A much younger Daryl sitting awkwardly on her parents' living room floor, worn school books and brightly colored papers all around them, blushing furiously when her mother had offered him a slice of cake, barely talking unless asked a question. And Ed. Lounging on the couch as they worked on their project. Keeping an eye on them. On her.

 

In hindsight, Carol recognizes that that had been around the time Ed had begun to change. Back then, she had brushed it off, as she had done with so many things, explaining them away or ignoring them entirely. He had been charming, a good match, and she had been so tired of being alone. Retracing the debris of her marriage back to that time, their last year in high school, she finds so many clues, so many hints at what was to come. It had not been until after their wedding that he had begun to show his true colors, her first bruises the only souvenir she got to take home from their honeymoon.

 

But she does not want to waste another heartbeat thinking about Ed. Not when she had, after so many years and so much blood and pain, finally stepped up, finally gathered the courage to leave him. He is no longer a part of their lives, having moved halfway across the country after the divorce. Out of sight, out of mind, and he deserves not even the grain of a thought.

 

 _Oh God, I forgot all about that_ , she confesses, grinning brightly. _It was for English class._ Daryl nods, leaning against the counter. _Do you remember how furious Mr Gimple was when we didn't have the handouts ready on time?_

 

Daryl barks out a laughter that sounds almost too genuine to be real, and Carol tries to spot the shy teenage boy in him, weary from a home that she, only now, really begins to question.

 

 _That's cause ya' didn't write 'em_ , he states, pointing his finger at her with a grin.

 

 _No way._ Hands propped into her hips, Carol gives him a mock stern expression that last for only a brief second before she feels the corners of her mouth lifting. _You were supposed to write them, I remember now. I was so mad at you._

 

_Hell yeah, ya were._

 

_I had to sweet-talk Mr Gimple into extending the deadline!_

 

 _Figured ya did_ , Daryl chuckles, and slowly, their laughter fades into silence. Carol eyes him carefully, the way he leans against her counter, one hand flat on the smooth surface, the other hidden in his pocket. She feels an unfamiliar lightness washing over her, the memories awakening something she has long deemed lost. The young woman she was back then, before her life became an avalanche, burying her. Maybe, deep down, that young woman is still there, eager and curious and soft.

 

 _I really forgot all about that_ , she mutters quietly, fingers trailing along the edge of the counter, but her eyes not straying from Daryl's face. He looks timid, assessing her.

 

 _Had other stuff on ya mind_. He looks down then, towards his boots, missing her slow nod. He has no idea how true his words are. Or maybe he does. _I should go._

 

His words feel like a punch in the gut, a feeling she is all too familiar with, but she understands. This, whatever this afternoon has been, is nothing solid, nothing real. Just a brief interlude in their lives, soon to be forgotten. _Can I drive you anywhere?_

 

He laughs at that, but she does not miss the blush on his cheeks. _No offense, but I ain't trustin' ya drivin' skills that much._

 

Crossing the distance between them, Carol lightly slaps him on the shoulder, a smug grin on her face. _I'm a good driver_. His eyebrow raises at that, and she cocks her head. _Most of the time._

 

 _Sure._ He looks down at her, and suddenly Carol realizes just how close to him she actually is. Her hand still rests on his upper arm, and from this distance, she can see the blue speckles in his eyes. As her own breathing suddenly seems to become strained, the day's heat pouring in through the walls and beneath her skin, she can see him swallowing hard. Neither of them moves to step away, but something tugs inside of her, and she does not know in which direction.

 

It nearly overwhelms her, the desperate need to be a different version of herself. A better version, the woman she once was, the type of person who she feels she should have been allowed to be and grow into. She does not know Daryl, but in a twisted way, he is the representation of everything she has lost since those blurry days of high school.

 

When she breaches the small distance and presses her lips against his, her only thought is that there might be a small part of her old self tethered to him, a memory she can steal from him. It belongs to her, after all. She belongs to herself.

 

He freezes beneath her touch, and then almost instantly pulls away. Just barely, though, she notices. Only his head, only far enough so he can look into her eyes. Mirrored in his, she sees the reflection of her own curiosity.

 

 _Told ya I ain't going to the cops_ , he mutters faintly, eyes flickering down to her lips. She wants to laugh, because he is a fool for thinking she would do this to bribe him. But the laughter turns to ash deep in her throat, and instead she moves her hand away from his arm, slides it up the side of his neck to curl into the the hair at the base of his skull.

 

This time when she kisses him, he does not fight it.

 

 

There is a thrill to it all that is unfamiliar and new. The shiver that runs through her veins when he cups her face in his hands to deepen the kiss. The urgency of her own fingers as they sift through his hair, coaxing a groan from him that she can feel against her lips. His eagerness surprises her, soft moans her only reply when he pulls her closer, flush against him, and the heat that radiates off him has her panting.

 

She has only ever been with Ed, and even back in school, back when she had actually craved to be with him, it had never been like this. At least, she can not remember ever feeling this consumed. Her skin is already flushed, a deep tint of red gleaming beneath pale skin, but she knows she would blush even more furiously at the way her hands fumble with Daryl's belt buckle. The sound of the metal clicking in the otherwise quiet room seems obscenely loud.

 

Daryl ends the kiss then, and she groans in disappointment, fingers curling into his belt loops, pulling his hips against hers. She can feel him hard against her stomach, and it fills her with pride to know that she did this. That someone still wants her.

 

She has not felt wanted or desired in so long, but the way he skims his lips down the side of her neck, nose brushing against the tender spot beneath her ear, hands ghosting over her breasts – she feels like the last woman left on Earth.

 

They are both setting a fast pace, although she wishes this would last longer. Still, she can not convince herself to slow down, her hand slipping inside his jeans the same second as his own squeezes her breasts through the thin cotton of her dress. His groan vibrates against her shoulder, his hips jolting forwards. Electric currents shoot through her when his thumbs brush over her nipples, and it only encourages her to curl her hand around him, her slow strokes accompanied by his heavy breaths against her.

 

 _I ain't got anything_ , he mutters as his hand finds her thigh, bunching up the hemline of her dress, fingers ghosting up her leg. The sensation is overwhelming, and she feels her hand stuttering against him for a moment, her brain too clouded to immediately understand what he is talking about. It dawns on her when his hands grab her hips and begin to steer her away from the counter. Protection. That's what he is talking about. Right.

 

The kitchen table presses into her thighs after only a few steps, her dress still bunched up in Daryl's hand. _We're good_ , she moans as he quickly lifts her up to sit on the edge of the table, the cold wood against her bare thighs raising goosebumps across the planes of her skin. Talking takes up too much effort, and so she hopes he won't inquire any further. _You clean?_

 

 _Yeah_ , he nods, pressing a kiss against her pulse point, his fingers brushing deftly and unceremoniously across the damp fabric of her underwear. He does not really seem to know what to do, and if Carol was not as tightly bound as she is right now, she might have found it endearing. It hardly matters, though, the way he fumbles and grazes at her skin along the edge of her underwear. Nobody has made an effort to make her feel this good in so long, every single touch sends a flutter of excitement through her entire system.

 

 _Me, too_ , she rasps, tightening her grip around him, and it seems to be too much for him. Deftly, he curls his free hand around her wrists to pull her hand out of his pants. He drops it almost immediately, pushing down his pants instead, just enough.

 

Carol bites her lip as she looks down between them, her thighs exposes, pressing into the sides of his hips, cradling him so tightly that he can not move away.

 

Quickly, his fingers resume their work, and Carol moans so loudly when he pulls her underwear to the side that she worries the neighbors might hear, suddenly remembering the open window. But then his fingers ghost over bare skin, and she stops caring about who might hear. Her hands grip his arms, anywhere she can reach, hips pressing forward.

 

It is all too much and not quite enough. She wants him to never stop, but this is not all she needs, and the indecision is tearing her apart, her breath catching in her throat when he slips one fingers inside of her, muttering words against her neck that she can not make out.

 

Not enough. Not enough. Her heart drums a violent rhythm against her ribcage when she reaches down between them to tug his hand away, his finger slipping out of her, the loss immediate, but she bites back the whine that tickles her throat. Instead, she lets go of his hand, uses the cradle of her thighs to bring him closer, and she has never been this grateful for wearing a dress.

 

Ed had never allowed her to wear pretty clothes, let alone dresses, and now that he is gone, she takes every opportunity to wear whatever comes her way. The blue sundress that is now bunched up around her hips seems like divine intervention.

 

Daryl seems to understand what she wants, taking a tentative step forward, hands digging firmly into her hips now. Whether to touch her or simply for leverage, she neither knows nor cares. When she feels the tip of him brushing against her, her breathing ceases entirely while Daryl’s dampens the side of her neck.

 

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 

 

 _Carol._ Her name is a breathy moan on his lips, painted against her own, and she swallows the sound, traces the curve of his mouth with the tip of her tongue. It comes naturally when she winds her arms around his waist, fingers splaying against his back, the rough fabric of his vest cool to the touch, and she pulls him closer.

 

His movements become erratic, uncoordinated, and when she parts from him far enough to open her eyes and watch him, she can see that he is close. Sweat is glistening above his lip and at his temples, his eyes hooded, dark and almost frightfully honest when he meets her gaze.

 

He drops his forehead against hers without ceremony, their breaths mingling, and she cherishes the soft groan that erupts from his chest when she moves her hips in tandem with his. The fingers that circle her just above where they are connected pick up the pace, almost painfully now, and Carol briefly considers patting his hand away. Instead, she removes one of her hands from his back, slides it down his heaving chest, feels his muscles jump when she smooths her palm down his stomach, and eventually rests it on top of his own, gently steering his movements.

 

He curses against her lips once more, dropping his head to her shoulder as he pushes into her so strongly that she fees the table rocking backwards beneath them, screeching against the rough stone tiles.

 

 _I can't_ , he groans against her shoulder, fingers moving desperately beneath her guiding hand, the other hand wrapping around her middle, and she knows that this is it. She pulls him up for a kiss, curls her hand around his neck, hums against his lips, and then he thrust a few more times, her name disappearing into her mouth, pulling her flush against him as he stills with a sudden force and a groan that sends shivers down her spine.

 

Somehow through it all, he has managed to keep up the rhythm of his fingers, and the sound of his groan, the warmth that spreads through her and the mingled beating of their hearts where their chests are pressed together, send Carol over the edge. She did not expect it, and it hits her completely out of the blue, all tension snapping, white heat flooding her veins and fogging her brain, hands clinging to Daryl as he presses wet kisses along her jaw, down her throat and across her exposed collarbone.

 

Eventually, she has to tug at his hand and pull it away from her overheated flesh, pleasure quickly morphing into pain as he continues gentle circles with trembling fingers. His forehead once more comes to rest against hers, labored breaths filling the silence. Slowly, the ticking of the clock and the rush of bypassing cars begin to flood back into her consciousness, but Carol can not bring herself to move an inch.

 

Daryl is still inside her, hands now smoothing up and down her bare thighs, his thumb drawing patterns against the soft skin there. Part of her wants to open her eyes and deal with this, whatever this is. Perhaps they should talk, she wonders. But the other half of her, the one that is winning at the moment, cups his cheeks gently in her palms, mindful of the scratch there, and holds him against her until his lips find hers again.

 

This time, the kiss is gentler, all the heat drained and replaced with a soothing warmth that awakens a flutter in the depths of her stomach. Carol does not have the slightest clue what to make of it.

 

Whatever this is.

 

When she finally dares to open her eyes, she finds him gazing at her with a mixture of curiosity and concern that haunts her even after he has gone. Not another word spoken.


	2. week eight.

**week eight.**

 

friday:

 

The television is blaring across the hall and through the closed and locked bathroom door, some noisy cartoon that would scrape away at Carol's calm composure on the best of days.

 

There have been, however, very few good days in the past two weeks. Since she started to suspect that something was wrong. First signs initially ignored or brushed off, and eventually explained away with logic and reason because _this_ is impossible. She is being ridiculous for even considering it.

 

 

Beneath her, the bathroom tiles are cold and uncomfortable, the edge of the toilet seat digging between her shoulders blades. Nervous fingers curl around her shins, pulling her legs up until her knees press into her chest. Her eyes look everywhere except the white stick between her bare feet; they trace the ceiling, scan the shelves to make a shopping list in her mind. _Toilet paper, tooth paste, tampons_. The last is accompanied by a thick lump settling in her throat, and Carol decides to close her eyes instead.

 

Her pulse rushes in her ears, steady and oddly calm, mingling with the silly tune drifting through the small house. She feels bad and incompetent for not marching out there and telling Sophia to turn down the volume, but her limbs are frozen, heavy like lead, and she can not move another inch until she knows the truth.

 

It is silly. Not possible. She has made sure that this would not happen ever again. Of course, that decision had been made with Ed a constant threat in the back of her mind, but that does not change the impact of her decision even now.

 

It has to be the stress finally taking its toll on her, the past year a turmoil of hiding from Ed's rage, pleading with lawyers, drying Sophia's tears, starting a new job and finally rebuilding a life from the ashes left behind in the wake of it all. That has to be it: stress.

 

 

Two months have passed since that afternoon in June, and she has not laid eyes on Daryl since then. It is okay, and she feels neither angry nor disappointed that he vanished from her life just as quickly as he had reappeared in it. If she is being honest with herself, this is for the better. Or had been, at least. Until now.

 

Carol does not claim to be an expert on one night stands or affairs or any other sort of thing that _other_ people do. Not her. But even with her rather limited knowledge, she understands that what had happened between them that afternoon had been different. Too intimate, as though walls that should have been up were carelessly torn down. The thought frightens her now. Only in retrospect does she realize how vulnerable they both had allowed themselves to be. Almost as if an underlying sense of trust had guided them, when trust is the one thing she struggles most to grant people these days.

 

Despite it all, she does not regret it. If anything, it had made her feel _good_. For days afterward, she had relished in the giddiness that burst from her, the rush and excitement of what she had done boosting her confidence and lightening her mood. She'd felt brave and daring, and so far from the meek, empty shell she had been forced into being for so long.

 

 

Her phone vibrates loudly against the tiles, tearing her out of her thoughts and back into reality. She sighs deeply, suddenly feeling as though a freight train is pressing down on her chest, quickly silencing the phone with a slide of her finger. It trembles, she notices, watching the pale digit flutter above the lock screen, Sophia's smile beaming up at her.

 

Eventually, she gathers enough courage from deep places of her being that have remained untouched for a while. Enough to look.

 

Whatever had happened between them, it most definitely was not supposed to _mean_ anything. The pink plus sign, however, tells a different story.

 

 

She does not cry when she throws the treacherous piece of plastic into the trash, nor when she catches her own reflection in the mirror. Her skin looks pale, the freckles that dot her nose and cheeks standing out, dark shadows heavy beneath her eyes.

 

She does not allow herself to cry when she cooks dinner, cutting vegetable into fine dices, listening to Sophia's vivid recap of her day, her endless excitement about the weekend, her sweet voice humming tunes, short legs dancing across the kitchen.

 

She has to hold back the tears when Sophia falls asleep with her head in her lap, Carol's fingers sifting through her blonde hair, ghosting along her rosy cheeks. Instead of giving in to the flood she feels building inside, she gently puts her little girl to bed, tucks at the pale blue blanket, and watches for a few more minutes as the nightlight casts an orange glow in the room.

 

It isn't until she slips into her own bed, watching the tree outside her window move in the wind, that she finally gives in. The tears flow freely now, and still she tries to muffle her sobs with her pillow, not wanting to wake Sophia. Never ever should her little girl have to see her cry again. She has, for too long, suffered along with Carol, terrified and helpless, watching her mother beaten and broken.

 

Not anymore.

 

Her own body seems to suffocate her, heat blazing beneath the surface of her skin, pajamas sticking to the planes of her back and thighs. Carol ignores it all, fighting to breathe calmly, careful fingers wiping away the salty trails left on her cheeks as she allows the sobs to rack through her body.

 

Too often has she laid awake at night when Ed was away drinking, telling herself this nightmare would end. That it was just that, a nightmare. It feels no different now, clutching her sheets, begging silently into the night to wake up to the sun kissing her face, and Sophia the only piece of her heart to worry about.

 

Already, she can feel a new piece of her heart breaking off, separating from the whole, devoted to one thing only in this world. It glows inside her with purpose, and it terrifies her.

 

 

When she finally falls asleep, she dreams of a small boy with blue eyes. He reaches for her, calls out for her, but when she holds out her hands for him to take, she breaches through a mirror, instead. It shatters, some shards cutting deeply into her skin, others crumbling into stardust. The boy's reflection cracks, disfigured, until it finally vanishes. His voice, however, remains, calling for her. Blood coats her hands, deep and crimson, and she looks everywhere for the boy.

 

He is gone, and soon enough, the echo of his cries is the only sound to keep her company.

 

sunday:

 

It is a cloudy day, patches of blue only occasionally peeking through the thick layer of gray that seems etched onto the sky. The air feels tangy, a coppery taste to it as it flows through the open kitchen window with the promise of rain, ruffling through Carol's hair. It is a brief moment of respite, the ticklish sensation of a breeze in the slowly growing locks of her hair. It has been short for so long, she can hardly remember how it used to feel. Now that it begins to curl around the base of her skull and edge its way onto her forehead, she feels the shadow of old memories.

 

The grim weather has no impact on Sophia and Carl's mood, though, and Carol smiles as she watches them burst across the backyard, calling out for each other and filling the midday quiet with their laughter. Only a year ago, it would have been an impossible sight, and that thought alone is enough to make the moment all the more precious.

 

Quietly, the oven hums, the glow of its lamps casting a shadow onto the stone tiles before it. Carol's mouth waters as the scent of freshly baked cookies begins to fill her nostrils. It's going to be a nice surprise for Sophia and Carl, and a treat for herself that she does not indulge in often enough.

 

The wooden box she has carefully placed on the counter before her is covered in a fine layer of dust, the intricate carvings beginning to age and weather. With steady fingers, she slowly opens the box, the creak of its hinges a familiar sound which she has not heard in too long.

 

Technically, she has a never ending list of things to do, a list that seems to double in length whenever she manages to get one thing done. A quiet moment like this, Sophia and Carl happy and cheerful, the kitchen timer buzzing with each minute that passes, is rare and she knows it is a waste of precious time to stand here and dwell in her thoughts.

 

Nevertheless, she reaches for the monochrome picture that rests on top of the pile of trinkets, papers and pictures filling the box. The years have not been kind to it, tiny nose and feet and legs even harder to make out than when she had held it in her hands the very first time. It looks more grainy, and her own name in the right corner is beginning to fade along with the time stamp.

 

She remembers how she had felt back then, holding the picture of her unborn daughter in her hands, a proof of the tiny life growing inside of her that was more valid than even the swell of her stomach or the flutter she could feel on occasion. She had been so terrified, not of becoming a mother, no. A part of her was excited about that, giddy even to bring a life into the world to nurture. No. The fear had been of what life this child would lead, and what started out as fear had often blurred into guilt. How could she force her own pain and suffering onto an innocent child?

 

As terrible a husband and a person Ed was, how good of a father could he be? The fear had consumed her back then, and Carol tenses when she realizes how very much alike she feels right now.

 

Her fingers curl around the smooth picture, knuckles whitening as the other hand drops down towards her stomach.

 

She has no idea what to do, a cold fist of indecision curling around her heart.

 

 

As far as she can tell, and she has done little else but consider every possibility over the last two days, she has three options, and all of them fill her with dread.

 

The first is to keep the baby and not tell Daryl about any of it. Their lives barely intersect, so he might not even find out about her pregnancy, much less figure out that the baby could be his. Even if he should somehow come to know about it, she doubts he'd even inquire or give it any more thought.

 

For all intents and purposes, she has always been a single parent, even when Ed was still part of their lives. He had never moved a finger unless they had guests to which he could show off the daughter he had never even wanted in the first place. It had all been up to her. She knows the feeling, and is confident that she could do it again.

 

Back then, however, she did not have to go to work to earn money for her family. That had been up to Ed, the mere idea of her working always a thorn in his eye. How could she manage now, all by herself? How could she maintain her job with an infant to care for? How would there ever be enough money? Enough time?

 

It leads her to the second option. She could _not_ keep the baby, pull herself out of this horrific nightmare and pretend it never happened in the first place. It is a thought that pulls at her heart, and her eyes drift between the fading ultrasound in her hand and the little girl twirling in the back yard. Once before, she has considered this, all those years ago. Sophia would not be here today had she gone through with it, and Carol feels the void she'd leave even just by thinking back to those desperate days. Then again, it would have spared her little girl all those years of pain and fear.

 

Carol shakes off the thought, seeing no use in dwelling on what ifs. Sophia is here, and she is finally happy. That is the end of it. This baby, however... She know she could do it, make this choice. But deep down, she understands it is not what she really wants.

 

That leaves her with the last and scariest option of them all: keeping the baby and telling Daryl the truth. The mere idea makes her feel like suffocating, a nervous chill running down her spine. She hasn't got the slightest clue how he might react to the news. Whether he would want to be involved or not. And to her surprise, Carol can not figure out which prospect scares her the most.

 

Having to fight him for child support? It seems unnecessarily unfair to her, but then again: how is this fair on _her_? Why should he be allowed blissful ignorance when she is already the one burdened with this choice?

 

Having Daryl be a constant presence in her life? The full package of awkward conversations, visitations, sleep overs, birthday parties, graduation, wedding, grandchildren. Her mind drifts further and further away from the matter at hand, suddenly imaging Daryl Dixon with a baby – with _their_ baby – in his arms, a look of devotion on his face, the kind she always longed to see with Ed. It's a distracting image, one that blends roughness and kindness in a way she is unfamiliar with. In a way, she feels like it is wishful thinking, the longing for a father for her child that is deserving of the word.

 

He might be a good father, she wonders, reminding herself that she does not really know him at all, and that that does not have to mean that everything there is to know about him has to be as bad as his family's reputation.

 

 

The timer goes off with an annoyingly loud beeping sound, and Carol sighs, gently putting the ultrasound back into the box. Warm air hits her like a slap when she opens the oven, the overwhelming scent of cookies arousing a tingle inside of her.

 

_Sophia! Carl!_ she calls, allowing her voice to drift through the open window. Met with excited grins as she waves a hot cookie through the air, Carol forces her mind to stop wandering. Wishful thinking or not, she knows she has to come to a decision sooner rather than later.

 

tuesday:

 

It takes an hour of rummaging through moving boxes that have been untouched for years until she finally pulls out the worn blue book. With a cup of steaming tea she had craved despite the August heat in one hand, a plate of leftover pasta from dinner in the other, and the book tucked securely under her arm, Carol quietly walks back to the living room. Her bare feet barely make a sound against the wooden floor.

 

She allows herself a peak through the crack in Sophia's door, making sure her little girl is fast asleep. A smile tugs at her lips when her eyes fall on Sophia, sprawled all across her small bed, snoring softly.

 

 

Music hums from the speakers when Carol settles down on the couch, her legs crossed beneath her. Every bone and muscle in her body seems to sigh in relief when she sinks into the soft cushions, permanently cool fingers wrapped around the steaming, frog-printed mug. Digging into her unnecessary second dinner, Carol can not suppress the content sigh that passes her lips, taste buds exploding with joy.

 

She props the book up securely in her lap, her fingers trailing along its spine for a while. It smells stale, like anything that has been stored in an attic for too long would. The scent has a certain comfort to it, she notes, closing her eyes and taking it in. It reminds her of childhood days spent in her grandparents' attic, scavenging through boxes and chests filled to the brim with fading photographs, moth-riddled clothes that belonged to decades long gone, and other trinkets gathered over the course of two lifetimes.

 

Taking a careful sip of her tea, the hot liquid coating her mouth, Carol eventually flicks open the book, her finger trailing along the seams of the pages delicately as she turns them. Some faces look vaguely familiar, others she has forgotten entirely. Every now and again, a face conjures up a smile on her face. There is Lori, a tight braid along the side of her face, her brilliant smile illuminating the dull photograph. Michonne, hopeful and cheery. Andrea, looking every bit as confident as she does today. Rick, looking almost shyly into the camera with his awful haircut, a mess that ruins his otherwise attractive features. Shane, boasting his brightest grin.

 

All of the pictures look terribly outdated, despite having been taken only about nine years ago. They all look so young, so unbelievably naive and hopeful. Carol finds her own picture after a while, chuckles through a mouthful of pasta, and trails a fingertip along the mess of red curls that frame her face, lost in thought.

 

For a brief moment, a part of her wants to skip forward to take a look at Ed's picture. Perhaps she subconsciously longs to see what once drove her into his arms, to explain and reason with herself why she ever made the choices that she had. Against the urge, she decides to skip that page, reminding herself of the reason that all photographs of him are buried in a shoe box in the attic now. Their wedding pictures. Ed holding their newborn daughter. All those memories she wants to alter. Despite the haunting pains they hold, she can not bring herself to get rid of them.

 

Instead, she flips back a few pages, eventually discovering what she had been looking for in the first place. Why she is now smirking down at Daryl Dixon is beyond her. His hair is a mess, all while being less of a shield than it is today. It is lighter, too, she notes, despite the monochrome, grainy quality of the picture. It surprises her that the photographer had been lucky enough to snap a picture of Daryl looking directly into the camera. His smile, however, seems fake, not reaching his eyes. He looks young, lost, the plaid shirt he wore out of place even then, surrounded by their classmates wearing the most awful and hideous of clothing.

 

The now empty plate of pasta clatters as Carol sets it down on the small coffee table, and as she sinks back more comfortably into the cushions scattered along her couch, she finds her hand absentmindedly ghosting across her flat stomach. She draws patterns there, flowers and suns and clouds, eyes closing slowly, allowing the drowsiness of a busy work day to lull her into a light slumber.

 

 

She wakes late, the clock on the wall telling her it is long past midnight, her tea turned cold, the book still open in her lap. The room is dark except for the moonlight that breaks through the curtains, but Carol can just make out Daryl’s face in the blue-tinted light.

 

He deserves to know. He deserves a chance. And in truth, closing the yearbook with a soft _thud_ , Carol has to admit to herself that she does not want to do this alone, not for a second time.

 

thursday:

 

Rain drums down onto the car relentlessly, the windshield wipers moving distractingly fast, and still the rain keeps blurring the street in front of her. Carol has switched off the radio a while ago, annoyed by the constant rush of static, but the dull silence it left in its wake is beginning to put a dampener on her mood.

 

She dares a brief glimpse into the rear view mirror, eying Sophia with concern, who has been dead quiet for the entirety of their drive back home from the Grimes' house.

 

 

_'Daryl Dixon?' Lori's eyes were as big as saucers, the magazine she'd been showing Carol falling limply from her open hands and onto her lap. Carol's confession that she was pregnant again had already drained her friend's face of all color, but the revelation of the father seemed a little too much to take in. 'You have_ got _to be kidding!'_

 

_Carol sighed, taking a sip of water even though her throat felt tied up. Keeping her eyes focused on her slender fingers curled around the glass, she waited. There was nothing more for her to say, to reveal, and so the only thing left to do was for Lori to speak her mind._

 

_'How did that even_ happen _?'_

 

 

_Are you alright, sweetie?_ Carol asks carefully, aware of how difficult it still is for the both of them to be open to one another about pain and sorrows. For too long, they both have had to swallow them, keep quiet and move on. Her eyes focus back on the road, the car in front of them going at an unnecessarily slow speed. Her foot aches to press the gas pedal a little further, but she sighs instead, curling her fingers tightly around the wheel.

 

_Carl told me his mommy and daddy had a fight this morning_ , Sophia eventually mumbles, so quietly and shyly that Carol struggles to make out the words over the rush of the rain. Her little girl sounds terrified as she speaks, and Carol understands why immediately, her chest tightening.

 

Lori is her oldest friend, and Carol knows about the marriage troubles her and Rick have had for years. For a long time, Lori had pretended that everything was fine, well aware of Carol's complicated situation, and only now that Ed is no longer an issue, does she occasionally confide in her friend about her relationship that had once been strong and solid, and is slowly falling victim to the passing of time.

 

 

_The story was told quickly, roughly, only the bare essentials. Carol wondered briefly how differently this conversation would have went ten years ago. Lori would have wanted to know all the juicy details, every potentially interesting side to the kind of story neither of them would ever experience. Now, they both looked shocked, tired and weary as Carol finished her tale._

 

_'Didn't you use a condom?' Lori asked bluntly, squeezing her hands where they had come to rest on top of Carol's. It felt comforting, almost like an anchor._

 

_Carol shook her head, and just as Lori was about to speak again – to lecture, she was sure of it – Carol confessed. 'I told him we don't need it,' Lori's eyebrows rose sky high, disappearing beneath her messy bangs. 'I had my tubes tied after Sophia was born.'_

 

_A moment of silence fell upon them, something dawning in Lori's eyes, and both women slowly turned their heads towards the open back door, watching as Sophia and Carl splashed and laughed in the small plastic pool._

 

_'Why didn't you ever say?' The hint of disappointment and the undeniable pity in Lori’s voice hit Carol head-on, and so she kept her eyes trained on her little girl, sunlight reflecting in her hair. Her answer turned to ashes on her dry tongue._

 

 

_Sophia, sometimes people fight or have an argument_ , she reassures her daughter, but the memories of a different sort of fight haunt her, and she feels fingers around her throat and aches in every part of her body.

 

_I didn't like it when you and daddy fought._ Sophia's voice breaks a little, high pitched and laced with fear. At only six years old, her little girl has suffered through so much, and it has deformed her perception of relationships and dynamics that should be natural and accepted. The thought saddens Carol beyond belief, remembering her own childhood, how carefree and full of hope and joy she had been.

 

 

_'You know we'll make this work, right?' Lori half-asked, half-assured Carol with a kind smile, deftly scraping leftover cake crumbs into the trash. 'Whatever help you need, I'm here for you. Rick and I both.'_

 

_Carol could feel the tell-tale prickle of tears in her eyes, reminding her of all the support and kindness that Lori and Rick had shown her over the years. Blinking them away, she nodded, forcing herself to give her friend a tight-lipped smile._

 

_The debt she owed the two of them seemed endless at his point, and while she knew they would never ask for anything in return, it loomed over them like a cloud of rain, threatening to burst._

 

_Outside, the sky was also beginning to turn gray, the air thickening and thunder rolling quietly in the far distance._

 

_'Carl! Sophia! You should come inside.'_

 

 

_Oh sweetheart, when Carl's parents fight, that's different. Rick would never hurt them_ , she explains, smiling gently and encouragingly into the rear view mirror. Sophia looks lost in thought, chewing her bottom lip as her fingers toy with the edge of her shirt.

 

Then she nods, looking back out of the window. There is so much they need to talk about, Carol realizes. For too long, she has made their happy future her first priority, all while ignoring the weight of the past that still drags them down every single day. Every fiber of her being aches to forget, but perhaps what they really need is to work through it all, even the darkness they left behind.

 

Not for the first time, Carol considers professional help. At least for Sophia.

 

 

_'What did he say?' Lori's question came unexpectedly, and Carol took a moment to make sure Carl and Sophia were busy with his new Star Wars figures before turning to her friend with a confused expression. 'Daryl.'_

 

_The table between them seemed to represent the distance Carol could feel growing, despite Lori's best efforts to be supportive. This was all new for them, untouched ground, and a small scandal that wrecked their imperfect, tested friendship. A new challenge to grow with._

 

_'I haven't told him, yet.' Again, the unwelcome thoughts overwhelmed her, scenarios played out in her head on repeat until none seemed likely. Good, bad, indifferent, even violent ones, her mind a constant source of hopes and nightmares._

 

_'Are you going to?'_

 

_Her nod sealed her decision._

 

 

Pulling onto their street, she suddenly feels overwhelmed by it all. All the turmoil of their last year, the stress at work, her daughter's future, the decision she has made for herself and the unborn child growing inside of her.

 

_Mommy, can we have pancakes for dinner?_ What wouldn't she give for a child's mind, Carol muses as she grins into the rear view mirror.

 

_No, sweetie_ , she softly shakes her head. _Not tonight. Maybe on the weekend._

 

 

_Sophia laughed brightly as she wriggled into her sandals, Carl chatting along about his weekend plans to go to the cinema with his father._

 

_'I'll have Rick check out his record', Lori said quietly, handing Carol her bag. Carol rolled her eyes with a sigh, but before she could speak, her friend was already defending her decision. 'Just to make sure. God knows what he's been up to since we graduated.'_

 

_'You can't tell Rick, yet,' Carol pleaded, taking her bag from Lori's hand, fumbling through the contents for her car keys._

 

_'I won't. I'll make something up.' Her reassuring smile was only a small comfort. 'Trust me.'_

 

_'Mommy, my feet are going to get all wet!' Sophia complained, standing in the middle of the hallway in her sandals, pointing at her feet. Lori chuckled, and Carol felt an unexpected bout of laughter bubbling in her own stomach, as well._

 

_'Well, you and me both, sweetie.'_

 

_There was a slight commotion as Sophia and Carol made their way through the front door, Carl still not quite finished with his burst of excited babbling, Sophia tip-toeing along the bricks that lined the steps, and Lori capturing Carol in a tight embrace. 'Whatever you need.'_

 

friday:

 

It seems to be a busy morning at the garage, a small gathering of people shuffling in front of the large open doors that grant a glimpse at a few different vehicles parked inside. Carol slows her car down as much as she can, her finger lingering on the blinker. On the radio, the news promise the hottest day of the year, and despite only paying half-attention, the announcement makes her groan.

 

Already, her legs are sticking to the seat of her car, the insides of her thighs damp, sweat gathering in the small of her back. Surely, her hair is curling in all directions from the humidity, but she avoids looking into the rear view mirror to confirm her suspicion.

 

She can make out a few men in dark blue overalls amongst the small crowd of customers, but to pinpoint Daryl from her vantage point across the street and out of her driving car proves too difficult. One quick glance at the clock tells her that she has another thirty minutes before her shift starts, and with traffic much less jammed than usual - largely due to people spending time at home with their children or far away on vacation - she could make the drive to the hospital in just about ten minutes.

 

That gives her twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to turn Daryl's life upside down.

 

She had been, and still is, convinced that sharing her pregnancy with Daryl is the right decision. Telling Lori had sealed it, and all that is left now is to actually go through with it. Carol straightens her shoulders, trying to find the courage to pull over. For all the brave choices she has made recently, she suddenly feels as quiet and powerless as ever before.

 

Maybe he deserves more than twenty minutes? Maybe he is not even working today, and she would make a fool of herself asking for him without any adequate reason to give? Excuse after excuse starts tumbling into her mind, and eventually, she has to admit reluctantly that today is not the day.

 

Her finger falls limply from the blinker, and with a sigh, she pushes down on the gas pedal. Perhaps today, the better use of her extra time is to grab a second breakfast in the cafeteria.

 

senior year/november 2006:

 

The first thing that crosses Carol's mind when she opens the front door is that he has been wearing this denim jacket since Freshman year. Probably. His backpack is slung lazily across one shoulder, and he looks a little lost, almost as if he had not expected her to actually open the door.

 

_Hi, Daryl_ , she quips, trying her hardest to sound nice. Sure, she does not exactly have a problem with him. He's never done her any harm, or even ever actually talked to her. But when Mr Gimple had paired them up for this waste of a project, she had been less than thrilled.

 

Daryl’s only reply is a brisk nod. His feet fall heavily onto the tiled hallway floor when she winks him inside, grateful to shut the front door against the chilly breeze that crawls beneath her jeans and blouse. The door falls shut with a thud that echoes in the following silence.

 

_Oh hello, Daryl_ , her mother's voice suddenly chirps through the small space, her head popping out of the kitchen with a kind smile. If there is one person in this world with complete lack of prejudice or unfounded assumptions, it is her mother. The prospect of having Daryl _Dixon_ in _his_ living room had been the core of a heated debate with her father earlier this week, and it had been up to her mother to ease the tension. _Give the boy a chance_. Now, her mother is reaching out her hand with so much enthusiasm that it makes Carol slightly uncomfortable about her own reservations.

 

Daryl takes it, albeit dropping it rather quickly.

 

_I'm Carol's mom_ , she explains – unnecessarily – with her wide smile stilled pinned onto her face. _Would you like anything to drink? Or maybe a slice of cake? It's chocolate and fresh out of the oven, so you might have to wait for a little while._

 

Carol feels her eyes rolling into the back of her head, standing awkwardly behind Daryl, not wanting to squeeze past him.

 

_No ma'am, thank you, ma'am_ , Daryl mumbles, tripping over the words as if somebody just asked him to recite the periodic table. Carol has to admit that it is, in an odd way, slightly endearing. Her eyes lock with Ed's, who is leaning up against the door frame to the living room, arms crossed defiantly in front of his chest.

 

_Hey, Dixon._ His voice is cold, and Carol feels disappointment simmering inside of her. Ed had been just as disapproving of inviting Daryl over to work on their project as her father, but at least her father has the dignity of keeping himself busy with taking down her old closet. She keeps quiet, though, watching as Daryl nods in Ed's direction.

 

_You can put your jacket up here_ , she explains, pointing to the hooks that line the wall. Daryl quickly shrugs out of his worn denim, and kicks off his boots with little finesse. Carol remains right there, unsure what to do exactly. _We'll be in the living room, my Dad's taking down my closet upstairs._ She realizes how unnecessary this piece of information was, but his silence is starting to make her uneasy.

 

Daryl nods again, and Carol dearly hopes that he will rediscover his voice at some point today, unless he expects her to work out this presentation all by herself. No chance of that, she swears to herself. She leads the way, waving into the direction of the light-flooded living room. _So, did you like the book?_ Anything to break the ice would do at this point. Maybe a chat about the weather is waiting just around the corner.

 

_Kinda sucked._

 

Fantastic. _Why did you think it... sucked?_ she asks, hoping to at least be given a reasonable explanation for his dislike. Something constructive that they can actually work with.

 

_Cause they all died_ , Daryl replies, briefly making eye contact. It lasts for all but a second before he looks down at his feet, and the blush that tints his cheeks, Carol wonders, might not be blamed entirely on the cold. If this is uncomfortable for her, than surely it has to be just as bad for him. The thought softens her somewhat, remembering that Daryl hardly has any friends. It's a sad thought.

 

_It's called 'And Then There Were None'._ She did not mean for it to sounds as teasing as it does. Did she really expect Daryl Dixon to appreciate Agatha Christie? It stirs her shame a little, to write him off that way, and so she just bites back the thoughts that are unwelcome. Daryl, however, does not seem to notice, shrugging his shoulders as they step into the living room.

 

Ed's arm is around her shoulder in an instant, fingers curling into her upper arm, pulling her against his side. She's grateful for the warmth he provides, still chilly from opening the door, but it feels a little too much to have him here when she already feels like the space is too crowded.

 

This is going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates might not always be weekly, that all depends on how busy I am at work. This was a slow week, and I felt inspired. The goal is to finish this as quickly as possible, though, before my muse decides to go on one of her very frequent vacations.


	3. week twelve.

**week twelve.**

 

Her steps are slow but determined, hands buried in the pockets of her cardigan. Surprisingly, her breathing is easy, nearly as calm as her pulse, and Carol finds it less difficult than expected to walk with straight shoulders and her chin held high. It does not matter that she is terrified beyond belief, or that, not even five minutes ago, she has wiped cold sweat from her brows and kneaded her trembling fingers in her lap.

 

Now, the confidence of knowing that she is finally doing the right thing carries her. She has allowed herself to be held back by her fear, by pointless reasons and shallow excuses for too long.

 

The scent of motor oil and gas floods her nostrils as she steps through the open doors of the garage, the echo of her steps reverberating from the metal walls. Inside, the air is cooler than expected. Clattering metal and the loud blaring of the radio welcome her.

 

She feels out of place, a little lost, scanning the room for Daryl. He is nowhere to be found, and the idea that he might not be around today hits her like a blow.

 

_Well, well. How can I help you, miss?_ A man with red hair steps towards her, wiping his hands on a greasy cloth. The name tag on his blue overall reads 'Axel'.

 

He gives her a smile that has her stomach revolting, and she can just barely keep herself from rolling her eyes. Instead, she offers him a kind smile in return. _Is Daryl around?_ she inquires, raising her voice to be heard above the loud music.

 

Axel cocks his head, brows furrowing slightly, and Carol feels uncomfortable under his gaze when he scans her without shame from head to toe, as if looking for the answer to his unasked questions. _Sure_ , he finally replies, sporting another grin as he takes one step closer. There is still a good distance between them, but Carol dearly hopes that he keeps it that way. _But there ain't anything Daryl can do that I can't do much better._ Carol feels something akin to pity welling inside of her at his rather pathetic attempts at flirting, and the animosity she has initially felt slowly melts away. _What's the issue, ma'am?_

 

_Thank you._ For a brief moment, she spots a flicker of hope in his features, before it evaporates with her next words, spoken more firmly but with a polite smile. _But I do need to talk to Daryl, please._

 

He can not mask his disappointment, hesitating a moment before shouting across his shoulder. _Dixon, there's a lady here wants to talk to ya!_

 

Carol looks over Axel's shoulder just in time to see Daryl rising from his crouch behind a large red Chevy, wiping his hands on his legs. Despite her earlier confidence, Carol finally feels the weight of her impending confession affecting her. Suddenly, her legs feel wobbly, as if standing up tall is the very last thing they were intended for. Inside her pockets, her fingers curl and uncurl nervously.

 

_Man, what's-_ Daryl starts, voice thundering through the enclosed space as he walks towards them. The words die on his tongue when he finally looks up, and Carol worries the inside of her cheek when he nearly trips over his own feet, eyes widening. _Carol?_

 

_Hi._ He comes to a halt next to Axel, who is following the painfully obvious tension between them with a knowing smirk. Carol tries to ignore it, but to maintain eye contact with Daryl is proving to be a test her nerves can not withstand. _Could we talk for a minute?_ she asks, hoping to get the words out before her legs decide to run in the opposite direction. Her eyes fall down to Daryl's arms, the sleeves of his overall pushed up to his elbows, exposing skin. The sight stirs memories she really, _really_ does not need right now, and she forces them away determinedly.

 

_Course_ , Daryl mumbles, forehead wrinkling beneath the veil of his hair. _Look after the Chevy for me?_ It takes Axel a second to understand the words were directed at him, too engrossed in the awkward and shameful excuse of a conversation happening right in front of him.

 

_Not your butler, dude_ , is his reply, defiantly crossing his arms in front of his chest. The look that Daryl shoots him, almost menacing in nature, is one that can only be given after years of knowing a person, of a person knowing you. It reminds Carol of the way that Lori will sometimes roll her eyes at her. Degrading in itself, but given a whole different meaning by years of friendship.

 

Clearly, these two men have known each other for a long time, and while Carol finds herself debating on the matter of their friendship, she finds it an amusing exchange to watch. _Come on!_ Daryl groans, _Y'already took five breaks today to smoke and take a piss._

 

Axel looks slightly offended by Daryl blurting out this particular piece of information, and Carol can not hide her smirk when he sighs and throws his hands in the air in defeat. _Alright, alright_. He turns back to Carol one last time, winking. _Remember, lady. If he screws up, just ask for Axel._

 

He walks away at a sluggish pace, throwing his greasy cloth onto a scattered work bench. That leaves the two of them alone in a room filled with curious men, and Carol suddenly feels more out of place than she has in a long time.

 

_Sorry 'bout him_ , Daryl mumbles, and Carol pretends not the notice the blush on his cheeks, or the way his eyes dart between her face and the floor.

 

_I've met worse, don't worry_ , she assures him with a nervous smile to which he does not respond.

 

Instead, he wordlessly points towards a red door at the back of the garage, and Carol follows his lead through the maze of cars and spare parts.

 

The door's hinges creak as Daryl pushes it open. Behind it, a small yard is revealed, bricks weathered and mossy, the bushes that shelter it from the rest of the world clearly untended to for a good long while. There is a dark green bench, painted over many times, chips of paint coming off to reveal a whole array of different colors.

 

_You won't get into trouble, will you?_ she asks, waving her hand pointlessly back in the direction of the garage as she sinks down onto the bench. The lingering smell of stale smoke clings to the air, stirring the nausea that has, so far, been blessedly scarce. _I didn't have your number and I don't know where you live, so-_

 

_Why ya' here?_ Despite interrupting her, Daryl does not seem angry or upset. Rather, a look of curiosity seems to linger in his eyes, and as he shuts the door with his gaze firmly on her, Carol recognizes actual concern in the way he looks at her.

 

When he makes no move to sit down next to her, instead hovering by the door with his exposed arms crossed in front of him, Carol pushes herself off the bench and back onto her legs, as well. The entire yard is between them, and the silence that begins to fill the space is thick, curling inside Carol's throat like a heavy lump with each breath she takes.

 

She feels as though the words might burst out of her, spanning beneath her skin. Weeks of tension have been building up to this, and finally, it needs to snap. Only now does she begin to wonder how to break the news. But Daryl begins to look confused, nervously scratching his chin.

 

_I guess there's no point in big words, so..._ Carol begins, unfamiliar with the way her words seem to rush out of her, tongue and teeth struggling to keep up. The words ring true, though. Daryl does not strike her as the type of guy who fancies big speeches. She needs to get to the point, and she needs to get there before he bolts, or before she changes her mind again. _I'm pregnant._

 

The world seems to come to a halt, then shift, continuing in a different direction. Unnoticeable for most, but in her heart, Carol can feel the change. How many times has she imagined this moment over the past month? She can hardly count, but nothing can compare to the indescribable relief she feels right now. Whatever happens next, she will find a way to manage it, to find a solution. After this, she will strive to embrace the changes that her words have brought forth.

 

The expression of confusion has been wiped off Daryl’s face. But so has everything else. A blank mask is all that is left behind, staring at her with blue eyes. Behind the metal wall of the garage, the music thunders, albeit muffled, and in the distance beyond the hedges, cars are rushing by.

 

Clearing her throat, Carol waits. For what, she can not say. _Aren't you going to say anything?_ she eventually asks, and the words seem to slowly wake Daryl from his stupor. His eyes come back to life, narrowed and full of questions, and she does not miss how his arms move straight back to their defiantly crossed position in front of his chest.

 

_Don't know what t' say_ , he finally replies, voice hoarse and spoken almost like a question that Carol finds herself unable to answer. They fall back into silence, because now that she has fired the shot, she no longer knows how to proceed, either. _Ya' said we didn't need anythin'._

 

He speaks the words carefully, keeping his voice down, but even through the veil of background noise and mumbling Carol can detect a hint of accusation. She does not exactly blame him for making assumptions, but right now, right here, does not seem like the right place to discuss this particular matter.

 

_I really thought we didn't_ , she assures him, quickly adding _Long story_ , before he can even add a second question. He falls silent, until he grants her a nod that she takes as a positive sign. _I thought you should know._ When she speaks again, suddenly overwhelmed by the sensation that she owes him an explanation, she finds herself desperately seeking eye contact. _I wasn't sure if I should tell you or not. But, this..._ Awkwardly, she points down towards her stomach. Even beneath the cardigan, nobody is yet able to tell of the life growing there. _You should know._

 

Daryl follows her hand, looking down towards her stomach. He swallows hard. _Then I got scared,_ Carol continues, reminded of the past four weeks made up of driving past the garage in good spirit only to flee at the last minute, countless nights spent awake drawing scenarios like a fresco in her head. _I thought, what if you have a girlfriend or a wife, that would make this so-_

 

The words seem to trigger something inside of Daryl, and Carol can pinpoint the exact moment that the solemn restlessness and confusion in his eyes is replaced by pure anger. Anger is an emotions she is more familiar with than any other, most especially anger that is directed towards her. In the back of her head, she hears Ed screaming bloody murder, the sounds of crashing furniture and breaking bones echoing in the depths of her memories.

 

_Ya' think I'd have slept with ya' if I had a girlfriend?_ When Daryl takes a large step forward, Carol finds herself flinching away from him, subconsciously, almost as if her body has made the movement a reflex to protect herself. She looks at him with caution, surprised to see that he must have noticed her body's reaction. His eyes soften a little in response, but when he speaks again, his voice resembles a hiss more than his usual mumble. _That who ya' think I am?_

 

It is the blatant disappointment in his words that catches Carol off guard.

 

_That's the thing_ , she throws back, keeping her voice calm. His disappointment is threatening to open a well of guilt inside of her, one she has sealed shut after a decade of feeling too much of it. Carol can not let him in like this, give him the power to hurt her, even without intention. _I don't know you, Daryl_.

 

He remains quiet after that, eyes focused on her briefly before dropping back to the mossy bricks between their feet. On his face, Carol detects more disappointment. He almost looks hurt.

 

When he nods, a sigh escaping him that even the music's echo can not hide, she begins to suspect why he is showing such a strong reaction to a stranger's opinion about him. To be fair, she has not made any rude comments or assumptions, other than those he has chosen to read between the lines. But there, in that enclosed space of interpretation where all the unspoken words gather, is where she has the power the hurt him.

 

Everything she did not say seems to be everything that he hears. He is a Dixon. That alone might be enough to make her believe he is the type of man to cheat on his wife. Or leave her to take care of their baby alone. All she has done is speak the truth, what little of it she knows. Without accusation or offense, and still the air between them is suddenly tense.

 

After a long, loaded bout of silence, Daryl clears his throat. _How long have ya' known?_

 

The sudden change of subject is welcomed, and Carol feels some of the tension leave her body, her fingers uncurling – she has not even noticed the tight fists until now. It seems as if he also feels like this is an entirely inappropriate moment to have this type of conversation. Carol is not certain if there will ever be a right time for it between them, but at least she can say that right now is not it.

 

_About a month._ For a moment, she wonders if that will anger him, too. The fact that she has waited, has put this off for so long. But if it does, he does not allow it to show.

 

_Y'okay?_ His hand comes up to scratch awkwardly at his chin again. _I mean, healthy, or whatever?_

 

It makes her smile, the uncertainty in his voice, and the genuine blush that tints his cheeks in the midday sun. _I'm good_ , she reassures him, watching as he quickly averts his gaze when met with her kind smile. It reminds her of that afternoon in her kitchen, how difficult it had seemed for him to allow kindness. _Saw the doctor the other day._

 

Behind the metal walls, the music suddenly turns silent. Both of them stare blankly at the closed door that leads back inside, and Carol knows their time is up.

 

_Listen, I gotta go back_ , Daryl confirms, and Carol wants to shake her head, claw her way across the space between them. There is so little she has said, so much they need to figure out. Instead of answers, she realizes she will walk away from this with more questions. Perhaps the despair shows, because the next second Daryl forces a weak smile. _Can we... talk 'bout this later?_

 

Maybe this is what she really wanted to hear when she finally convinced herself to confess. That he _wants_ to talk about this.

 

_Sure_ , she agrees, trying to sound more casual about it than either of them can manage to pretend. _Are you free tonight? You could come over for dinner._ It seems like an odd suggestion, even as she voices it, but what else are they going to do? Within all the countless probabilities, Carol fails to spot a single one that does not come with a wagon load of awkwardness.

 

Daryl nods, arms flailing a little uselessly by his side. _Yeah._

 

When he returns her smile, Carol feels her heart lift. _Okay._ He turns then, fingers curling around the rusty door handle. She calls his name before he can pull open the door. _Daryl?_ His hand stills, immobile around the old metal. Looking over his shoulder, he waits for whatever it is that she wanted to say. Briefly, Carol struggles to remember. _Thank you_ , she eventually mutters, quietly.

 

_For what?_

 

Suddenly, she feels ashamed by her own worries. _For not asking if it's yours._ On more than one occasion, and in countless of her ridiculous worst case scenarios, that question has been center stage. Even just considering it aroused an onslaught of humiliation. Not having to deal with the question now is a blessing.

 

Whatever has happened between them, it meant nothing. It can not mean anything, not even now, her fingers inside the pockets of her cardigan gently fluttering against her belly. Yet, despite the lack of deeper meaning, with no connection, it does not make her a bad person for grasping the chance when he had offered. The chance to escape, even just for one afternoon. To be a different, bolder, more reckless version of herself.

 

Whatever he has taken away from that day, she can not say. Perhaps nothing, at all. One way or the other, she is glad he is not labeling her. Or them.

 

_Might have if I were some rich prick_ , he counters, sounding serious for only a second before his lips tug into a hesitating grin. Carol laughs, also careful and feeling odd doing it, but the muscles in her stomach rejuvenate at the sensation. _I ain't_ , Daryl adds, and it sounds too much like a warning for Carol to just brush over it. But before she can speak up, he interrupts her. _And didn't pitch ya for a liar._

 

In the end, all she does is blush.

 

* * *

 

 

_Can't see a damn thing_ , Daryl huffs, turning the monochrome picture upside down, hoping that the change of angle might provide some clarity. It hardly helps, and the only thing that makes any sense to him is Carol's name printed in the top right corner of the photograph, the letters now upside down.

 

All he can make out is a blurry mess of black and white, swirls and shadows and nothing that resembles a human being. At all.

 

Carol's sweet laugh fills his ears, and he looks up from the ultrasound just in time to see her pushing aside his empty plate, making barely enough room on the table before she sits down on the edge of it. Briefly, that brings on flashes of the afternoon that has caused this mess in the first place. He can feel her soft skin beneath is fingers all over again, hear her sighs, taste her lips. She even looks down on him now with those same blue eyes, and he loses himself inside them for a moment.

 

He wants to slap himself. Now is hardly the time for his mind to drift into that direction, and it sure as hell is not the reason he is here. _It's really a bit too early for an ultrasound_ , she explains, hands curling around the edge of the table. She's nervous, he can tell. Even standing in the middle of the garage, he had known that her sudden reappearance in his life could only mean trouble. The fear in her eyes confirmed that even before she uttered her confession.

 

Daryl is glad now that she has made such an effort all evening to keep him out of the kitchen. Instead, she had practically shoved him into the living room, declining every polite offer to help that he had made. It must be her way of protecting herself, he assumes. Simply inviting him back into her home must have cost her a lot. Not to mention the dilemma at hand – or better: currently _in_ his hands.

 

Vaguely, he remembers her house from their brief and near-disastrous English project nearly a decade ago. He feels ashamed for not remembering what happened to her parents, but it seems inappropriate to ask right now. The house had looked different then. Now, everything seems to have changed, or maybe his memory is beginning to fail him. That, though, seems unlikely. He still remembers small details. The blue curtains, the framed pictures above the brick fireplace. Purple throw pillows. Creaky floorboards. Her house had been the nicest he had ever been to, a palace of comfort compared to the shack he called home in those days.

 

No, Daryl is sure it has changed massively over the years, and that his memory is not to blame for that. One way or the other, he is back in Carol's living room. Only now, instead of a worn copy of some Agatha Christie novel, he is holding the first picture of his child. Their child.

 

_We had to rule out an ectopic pregnancy, though_ , Carol continues, tearing him out of his train of thoughts. It takes him a few seconds to process her words.

 

The question blurts from his mouth without inhibition. _The fuck is that?_ This entire day has been one messy business, and this conversation – not to mention the tense dinner that preceded it – is the cherry on top of it. If he has ever been lost, it was nothing compared to this. Merle would have a blast if he found out about this.

 

Carol rolls her eyes in a way that makes her seem younger, sillier. It reminds him of a long forgotten version of herself who giggled in the hallways and talked in front of their whole class with a smile and beaming eyes. _You really want to get into all that now?_

 

_Guess not_ , he shrugs, suddenly embarrassed by his complete lack of knowledge about this topic. Then again, does she really expect him to be an expert? All his life, he has had no reason for that. That's not exactly an excuse, he admits, but at least he can try to explain his stupidity away. Carol, however, does not appear to be bothered by it all that much. Quite the opposite, she has treated him almost too kindly all evening. It leaves him with an uneasy sensation in his guts.

 

He does not want a baby, nor does he want to be a father. It is not a wish for either of that, or a sense of duty, or even rueful acceptance of the situation that has pushed him to actually show up at her door. No. It is fear, and a lifetime of shitty memories. Perhaps even a rebellious streak, not wanting to repeat the mistakes of every single person who was supposed to love him and care about him all his life.

 

Before, in the garage, she had gotten under his skin, talking about how she does not know him at all. She seems kind enough, but she must have her opinions about him. Everybody in this godforsaken town has. He is a Dixon, after all.

 

Like before, Daryl is challenged by a desperate need to change the subject. _So, when ya said we don't need..._ Fantastic. He is nearly thirty years old, and still talking about this makes him blush, the unwelcome heat in his cheeks not doing much for his already brittle confidence. _Well..._

 

He does not mean to accuse her of anything. Deep down, he understands perfectly well that this was an accident, and that Carol never meant to get knocked up. Not only is he far from rich, so no big gain there, but the legacy of his family looms like a shadow above his head. Nobody in town who even cares a little about what other people think – and she has to be considerate of that; she has a daughter and friends, after all – wants to be, in any way, affiliated with a Dixon. Much less get knocked up by one. Truth be told, she really is the one with the worse luck and more to lose out of the two of them.

 

Carol hesitates, fingers tapping nervously against her kneecaps. _I had my tubes tied after Sophia was born._ Daryl is not sure what answer he expected, or of he had any expectations at all. But her reply brings on a slide of questions about her marriage that he does not feel entitled to ask her. _You know what that means, don't you?_ Carol smiles shyly, but her lips quickly drop, leaving behind an emptiness he resents. _It's almost impossible to get pregnant._

 

She sounds sad, and it frustrates him that there is nothing he can say to change that. _Y'are now, though_ , he states, the fact lingering between them for a while. Her legs are still dangling from the table, occasionally bumping against his thigh. Each time, it sends a jolt through his system, nerves fluttering, fingers fumbling with the picture.

 

_That's the head._ Carol points at a seemingly random white blotchy spot on the ultrasound, and Daryl tilts his head, staring at it with a concentrated frown. She is right, he realizes with a start, turning the picture a little to the left, and suddenly he can see it. His child's head. For some reason, that realization spreads warmly through his veins and melts away some of the fear and worry that this situation has stirred.

 

Perhaps that has been Carol's intention all along. The reason for the nice dinner, the kind smiles, the occasional, almost accidental touches. She wants to make him care. That alone proves what he fears she thinks of him.

 

_Is it supposed ta be this blotchy?_ he asks, opting out of questioning her motives.

 

_That's normal_ , she mutters, almost lost in thought as she looks down at the picture. _We'll be able to see it better when I'm further along_. A brief pause, unspoken words lingering between them, and Daryl looks up at her expectantly. Carol avoids his gaze, he notices, sighing. _That is, if you want to see._

 

The questioning expression that wrinkles her forehead and sharpens her eyes only confirms what Daryl has suspected, what she must expect of him. If anything, it awakens something inside of him that has been dormant for a long time. The desire to prove her wrong. It has been years since that need has made itself known; not since he decided to actually graduate, to try and make his life worth something unlike his brother or father.

 

_Y'asking me if I'm gonna bail?_ She does not seem to have an answer to his blunt question, looking almost fearful, expecting the worst. It sickens him to see that some event or some person has turned her into this, hesitant and frightfully aware of every risk. _I ain't_ , he promises, putting down the ultrasound, shifting on the chair until her knee bumps against his elbow. His eyes are level with her stomach now, covered with a cardigan that flows freely. He wonders if she is showing already, and the need to find out surprises him.

 

_I had a shit dad._ Looking up now is not an option, the words heavy, his tongue twisting around them. Surely, she never considered Will Dixon to be a particularly competent parent, but to admit this out loud now, for the first time, Daryl feels a part of himself breaking free. _And I'm guessing so did your kid._ It is a carefully constructed and quietly muttered assumption, one that he can only deduct from unpleasant memories of a teenage Ed Peletier and the complete lack of photographs of him in the house. He glimpses up at Carol, whose mildly shocked impression irritates him.

 

_Don't want my kid t' have a dad like I did._

 

It's strange. When he woke up this morning, it was just him. Tonight, when he goes to bed, he is going to be a father. Even the idea of it is surreal. Not once in his mostly miserable life has he played with the idea of a family of his own. He never wanted children. Hell, he always assumed that it was for the best if the Dixon line ended with him.

 

Of course, he has no idea what Merle is up to these days. It has been years since he last saw his brother, during those claustrophobic and doubt-filled days when their old man bit the dust. Merle pretty much disappeared after that. Daryl never gave it much thought, to protect himself mostly. And to protect Merle, the only pathetic excuse for a family he has left. But unspoken, his big brother's disappearance only confirmed Daryl's suspicion about the real nature of their father's untimely passing.

 

Becoming a father himself is now a reality. Finding himself in the focus of Carol's questioning stare, he swears to himself to do his best. He has no clue if he can ever be a good father, whatever the definition of that may be, but he sure as hell can give everything he has to be a better one than his old man ever was.

 

* * *

 

 

It is definitely there.

 

Carol feels the tug of a smile as her eyes scan the slight curve of her stomach in the foggy mirror, her fingers trailing down from between her sore breasts down to her belly button. Nobody will notice just yet, and she cherishes in this intimate moment.

 

Her phone buzzes, vibrating against the washing machine. Sighing, Carol wraps a towel around her naked, wet body, tip toeing across the cool tiles, the scent of her shampoo fresh and pungent in the humid air.

 

The first thing she notices with a start is that it is almost midnight already. Then her eyes scan the messages that have popped up on her screen, and almost instinctively, her hand creeps its way beneath the towel and comes to rest against her belly, the smile from earlier making a triumphant return. Chuckling, she sinks down onto the toilet.

 

_Daryl Dixon_

_Sep 8, 2016 11:43pm_

 

_hey, you sure it ain't that ectopic thing?_

 

_Daryl Dixon_

_Sep 8, 2016 11:44pm_

 

_no cramps or anything? bleeding? says you need to get some levels checked. wait a sec..._

 

_Daryl Dixon_

_Sep 8, 2016 11:46pm_

 

_hCG levels_

 

_Daryl Dixon_

_Sep 8, 2016 11:47pm_

 

_got those checked??_

 

_Daryl Dixon_

_Sep 8, 2016 11:51pm_

 

_kid has fingernails already!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, mostly because there is a lot more dialogue in it than I usually write. Writing dialogue stresses me out.


	4. week sixteen.

**week sixteen.**

 

Carol has not forgotten her elusive, almost foolish hopes that Daryl would actually want to be invested. That she would not have to fight him for money or affection, that with a little work and effort she might truly be capable of making him care.

 

To say he has surprised her is an understatement unlike any she has ever made.

 

 

All of her fears about his possible reactions have evaporated in the short month since her confession. It scares her a little, how easily her faith in him has grown and still continues to do so. With each question he dares to ask, every kind word or hesitant suggestion, Daryl earns her trust. The process will be slow and laborious, she is sure of that. And perhaps she will never trust him quite enough, but judging by his genuine effort, confidence spreads inside of her warmly at the thought of him trying.

 

At first, he fights quietly for her validation and trust. Shy questions about her well-being, inquiring about different pieces of information he seemingly has stumbled upon. They meet up for lunch or dinner a handful of times, and each time the tension spanned between them gradually grows weaker. He can be remarkably easy to be around, Carol notices, reminding herself of the afternoon in early summer that started this. How comfortable she had felt in his presence back then, without knowing him or being pressured to open herself up.

 

His text messages are something she has quickly grown too fond of. She awaits them, really. During her breaks at work, before she goes to bed and then again first thing in the morning. Usually, at least one question pops up on her screen during any of those times. Maybe he feels more confident when they are not face to face, when she has no way to see his blush or hear him stumbling over seemingly simple words.

 

They both fumble, she is at ease with herself and the situation enough by now to acknowledge that. Neither of them truly knows how to proceed. In some ways, this had been easier with Ed. Back then, she had known what to do after finding out that she was pregnant with Sophia. Once Ed's fury simmered down to blatant disapproval, she had quit her job, painted and furnished her childhood bedroom into the nursery, gone to her classes by herself, read books, cried herself to sleep and woke up to another endless, repetitive day. It had been clear, bitter and poignant.

 

Now, her and Daryl both need to figure out what exactly their respective responsibilities are going to be. It is a challenge larger than they are prepared for.

 

One painfully awkward conversation about money early on had thrown them back in their progress a little. In retrospect, Carol is not sure whether to be glad that they have dealt with such a sensitive subject early on or to regret not having waited a little while longer. Daryl is not unwilling to pay, quite the opposite, but the _how_ and _when_ and _how much_ had been the core of a rather heated discussion. When he brought up college, of all things, Carol almost broke out in tears.

 

She is glad now for all of Sophia's baby things that have been gathering dust in the attic for years. Ed's refusal to give them away to friends is paying off now, and the fact that they can put the financial discussions on hold for the time being seems to have played a major role in the easing tension between her and Daryl.

 

 

At first, she thought that Daryl was only investing himself in this out of guilt, perhaps even a sense of duty. Sometimes, his dry and haunted words about his own father slip into her memory. She has not asked him about the man, senses that their relationship was not a good one. It might explain his ambition to do right by her, she wonders. It is easier, however, to write it off as duty or guilt. That alone would have been more than she could have hoped for, and so much more than Ed was ever willing to give Sophia. But, as more time passes, she slowly comes to realize, albeit with a large helping of hesitation, that he genuine _wants_ to be involved.

 

The idea is as reassuring as it is terrifying. She is as grateful as she is overwhelmed.

 

He gives away so little about himself that Carol considers it wrong to claim she knows him. There are walls around him mile high, and he only gradually allows her glimpses inside. On the other hand, she senses a mutual understanding of each other that she can not find the words to explain.

 

 

To trust in him too much can only bring inevitable disappointment, Carol tells herself as she swipes her hands in large circles across her slightly protruding belly, spreading the cocoa butter across the planes of freckled skin. Her face is flushed, plump, the circles under her eyes vanished, and she feels beautiful for a fleeting, precious moment. Fingertips trail around her belly button as she hums quietly, attempting to cherish the moment, and to cherish what Daryl is willing and able to give.

 

Until the time comes when he denies her that and she will have to _take_ from him.

 

Over the years, she has come to learn that it always ends that way.

 

* * *

 

 

 _You're going to be my baby brother's daddy?_ Sophia eyes Daryl with concern, hand propped comically into her side, head tilted, eyebrows scrunched together. She scans him carefully, from the mop of his hair down to the black leather vest he has thrown over a rugged-looking denim jacket, all the way until she reaches the heavy boots that have dragged in the mud from the driveway.

 

Daryl's eyes go as big as saucers at her words, quickly looking up from the little girl to Carol, seeking confirmation. She only rolls her eyes, gentle hands coming to rest on her daughter's shoulders. _Sophia, we don't know if it's going to be a boy_ , she explains softly, watching as some of the tension is drained from Daryl’s face.

 

 _But I'm already a girl,_ Sophia declares, turning her head towards her mother. _It_ has _to be a boy._

 

Sophia's simple determination is delightful, easily conjuring a smile onto Carol's face. Even Daryl shows signs of a smirk that he obviously attempts to tone down, ever aware of two small, piercing eyes tracking his every move. He stands a little solemnly in the hallway, arms limply by his side.

 

 _We'll find out soon enough_ , Carol reassures Sophia, leaning down to press a kiss to her rosy cheek.

 

 _His name will be Olaf, you know?_ Sophia declares proudly, shrugging off Carol's hands as she lifts her heels, bouncing excitedly on the spot. Pressing her hand against her forehead, Carol sighs.

 

 _Olaf?_ Daryl looks about as confused as his voice sounds, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and disgust. Apparently, he has a word or two to say about his potential son's name. Carol is grateful, knowing fully well that successfully fighting her daughter on this would take the two of them.

 

 _Yes! Like the snowman._ The way Sophia explains it, it is obvious that she fully expects Daryl to understand why her name choice is perfectly reasonable. But when silence falls upon them and Daryl only looks more and more confused, and beginning to grow uncomfortable, Sophia comes to a startling conclusion. _You don't know Olaf?_

 

Carol masks her laughter as a cough, very badly so, drawing Daryl's attention away from the horrified and shocked expression on her daughter's face. She only shrugs her shoulders when he stares at her, silently asking for help.

 

 _Afraid not, kid_ , he confesses when Carol offers no assistance, instead choosing to watch this particularly entertaining conversation unfold without interruption.

 

 _You don't know Anna and Elsa?_ Sophia sounds breathless now, and when she turns her head towards Carol, her eyes are wide, mouth open in theatrical shock. _Mommy, can I please show him?_ The bouncing resumes, her small hands folding into each other in front of her chest like in prayer. _Please?_

 

This is not exactly what Carol had in mind when she decided it was about time that Sophia and Daryl met. After all, with her belly growing slowly and steadily, time is passing rapidly for them. There is so much that needs to be done in so little time, so many obstacles to pass that are usually long gone by the time a baby is added to the mix. _You'll have to ask Daryl if he wants to watch it_ , _sweetie_ , she says, earning herself a wide grin in response.

 

Sophia immediately turns on her heels towards Daryl, who is still standing there without showing any sign of knowing what to do with himself.

 

 _Mr Daryl, please?_ Carol is more than familiar with the look that Sophia is giving him, despite only seeing the back of her head, hair pulled into a ponytail with a furry blue hair tie. Her eyes are certainly gleaming with innocence, wide open, lips curled into the sweetest smile, a rosy blush on her cheeks. Very few people can deny her anything once 'the face' comes into play.

 

Daryl stutters on a few choice words, overwhelmed and clueless about what is happening. Finally, he shrugs. _Sure._

 

The word has not left Daryl's mouth completely before Sophia is already leaping victoriously into the air, twirling excitedly towards the living room and disappearing around the corner. Not two seconds later, Carol hears the nasty screeching of the DVD drawer opening, plastic clattering as Sophia hums a cheery tune.

 

Carol and Daryl remain frozen to the floor, quietly exchanging hesitant gazes. It is always like this when they meet. The start is the hardest, they can never quite seem to figure out how to breach their initial shyness, or the sheer madness of the situation. Usually, this passes after a while, but they have not yet grown accustomed to each other enough for a smooth start.

 

Clearing his throat, Daryl kicks off his muddy boots, placing them a little lazily on the mat by the door. His vest and denim jacket are stuffed on top of countless other coats and jackets, hats and scarfs, bags and umbrellas that all hang from the various knobs on the wall. All the while, Carol watches him, tries to decipher him in silence.

 

 _You have no idea what you just got yourself into_ , she promises quietly and with a smirk when he takes a few hesitant steps towards the living room. Inside, the television has been turned on, already.

 

He comes to a halt next to Carol, peeking through the doorway. _Can't be worse than what Merle used ta make me sit through._

 

_You say that now._

 

 

 

By the time _Do you want to build a snowman_ blares from the speakers, Daryl is already halfway through his third cup of coffee. Every time his eyes meet her own, he looks at Carol with utter despair, silently pleading for help.

 

She decides to let him simmer in his self-inflicted mystery for a little while longer, taking a sip of her tea, the mug warming her fingers. Her legs ache a little, tucked beneath her body on the narrow armchair.

 

Sophia is singing along perfectly out of tune, swaying her body back and forth, legs crossed beneath her on the couch. She is completely absorbed, but every now and then seems to remember the reason for watching this movie for the millionth time. Making sure that Daryl is paying the story the attention it deserves, she asks him questions, or simply studies him from the corner of her narrowed eyes.

 

He is well aware of that. Carol is surprised by how good he is with Sophia then, making up swift replies to her silly questions, making her laugh with more than one ridiculous face, and even reluctantly humming along after much animation and pleading. Carol nearly bursts out laughing then, struggling not to inhale her tea.

 

 

 

Seeing her daughter so open and welcoming towards a stranger, despite all of Ed's influence, comforts Carol, and more than once, she has to tear her eyes away from the two of them, smiling, unnoticed. For too long, she has spent all her waking hours driven by the fear that Ed had not only ruined her life beyond repair, but that of their daughter, as well. Scarring her in a way entirely different and yet so similar to the way he had done to her.

 

Neither her nor Sophia, have escaped his grasp without his marks inevitably left behind on them. Carol does not miss how Sophia deliberately keeps the entire length of the couch between herself and Daryl, even propping up a few cushions between them. They form a wall that is soft and cozy, but proof of the fear that resides permanently in her innocent mind.

 

It's saddening, evidence of everything Carol has fought so hard to defeat. But slowly, the wall comes down, brick by brick; with each of Sophia's grins and Daryl's chuckles it slowly disintegrates.

 

 

 

Once the credits roll, Sophia has dragged all of her Frozen toys into the living room, littering the couch, filling the space initially separating them. Her blonde, braided wig sits crookedly on her head, a plush reindeer in Daryl's lap, a tiara in the empty chips bowl on the coffee table, and a plush Olaf cradled in Sophia's arms as she pushes a snow flake covered mug of juice into Daryl’s hands. He seems to have resigned to his fate, accepting it with a smile, gulping down the sweet juice without complaint.

 

Carol watches the two of them, mesmerized by the joy and cheerfulness of the moment, twisting a glowing wand between her fingers, tapping it softly against her belly.

 

* * *

 

 

The cookie falls apart in Carol's mouth, gooey and warm. Chocolate chips melt and burst with flavor on her tongue, and for that one sweet moment, she can ignore the tight-lipped concern on Andrea's face.

 

 _If he fucks this up, I swear I'll find something to lock him up for_ , her friend declares, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear as she leans forward on the couch to pick a grape from the plate Lori has placed on the coffee table.

 

 _Rick checked his record, he never even got a speeding ticket_ , Lori explains before Carol can swallow her bite and speak up in Daryl's defense. Even though she casts a smile towards Carol, Lori does not sound quite as convinced as her words were meant to make them believe. It's unexpectedly hurtful to hear her friends this suspicious and, frankly, mean-spirited. It reminds Carol of three young girls, cuddled up on a bed in their pajamas, giggling and gossiping. Under the pretense of youth, empathy quickly got lost in a swirl of pubescent hormones.

 

They should have long grown out of this, Carol thinks sadly, dropping her cookie back onto the plate, her appetite for it lost. She watches the crumbles break loose, listening as Andrea continues her rant.

 

 _Well, coming from that family, there has to be something._ A short break. _There's_ always _something._

 

 _Andrea, please_ , Carol pleads, feeling her temper stirring. She has been looking forward to this for weeks. Ever since Andrea moved to Florida, these cozy afternoons have become far too rare. They are one of the last remnants of their old days, when they spent every day of the week together, shared all milestones, heartbreaks and excitements. As time passed and their lives changed, the dynamics between them were adjusted, as well. Carol supposes it it just a natural element of friendship. It evolves, and sometimes, sadly, it grows apart.

 

The anticipation of Andrea's visit had been palpable, despite the rather uncomfortable phone call a month ago, when Carol told her about the baby. Her reaction then had not been much different from her current monologue. Now, Carol feels her excitement swiftly shifting into disappointment.

 

Andrea pays Carol's plead no mind, instead seemingly lost in thought for a moment as she reaches for another grape. Her forehead crinkles, eyes drifting away. Carol remembers this expression, has seen it a thousand times in class. _Remember when old Will Dixon died?_ Andrea begins, seemingly thinking out loud. But then she turns to Lori, who looks more than a little uncomfortable. _Didn't they lock Merle up for that?_

 

Lori's eyes find Carol's, softer and less of a turmoil than Andrea's. Carol tries to explain away her disappointment in Andrea. After all, Lori has had much more time to adjust to the situation, and had been right there to see how terrified of it all Carol has been. For Andrea, who they have not seen in nearly eight months, Carol must appear much too settled and at ease with her circumstances. That might mean that her act is a good one, and that she is just as capable at hiding her still ever-present fear from her friends as well as Daryl, still a stranger by her definition. It still nags her that Andrea is unable to let this go and at least tolerate that this is how things are going to be. But instead of speaking up, Carol sinks further into the couch, nodding encouragingly at Lori.

 

She owes Andrea so much. Vividly, Carol recalls the day she finally left Ed. The way Andrea had yelled at him, taken a stand for her friend, nearly taken a blunt hit in the face in the process – it all haunts her until this day. Andrea had been the one to rush Sophia and her out of the house, away from Ed who was left behind shouting and smashing the glass in the front door.

 

Andrea had done the one thing Carol had been unable to do on her own.

 

 _No_ , Lori explains, kneading her hands as she softly shakes her head. Carol watches Andrea intently as they listen to Lori. _Rick said they looked into it, but there was never any prove of foul play._

 

 _You mean except for the fact that Merle Dixon was there when it happened?_ Andrea scoffs, raising her eyebrows in disbelief.

 

 _Can we talk about something else, please?_ Carol tries again, struggling to keep her voice calm. Somehow, Andrea's lack of faith in Daryl translates into a lack of faith in her, and that is something she never would have expected from her friend. _He's really trying. Ed never cared about any of this, at least Daryl makes an effort._

 

With a sigh, Carol looks down at her lap, the small swell of her belly popping out from beneath her cardigan. Almost by instinct, her hand comes to rest there, hovering for a moment before settling against the curve.

 

 _Do you like him?_ Andrea's voice is softer now, and when Carol looks up, she briefly catches Lori determinedly shaking her head at Andrea, meaning to shut her up. Carol wonders what that means. Andrea, however, takes no note. _I mean, he was always easy on the eyes, but do you actually_ like _him?_

 

Compared to before, her words are free of judgment, and in the kind rhythm of her question, Carol recovers the friend she almost came to believe she'd lost. _It's not like that_. Does she like him? She does not dislike him, she is sure of that. But she is not too naive to misinterpret the intention behind Andrea's wording. _I'm just trying to be mature about this. He's not Merle, and he's not his father._ She makes a point to face Lori now, who, despite her support and aid when it comes to the baby, has spent the last few months suspiciously quiet on the subject of Daryl. _You should give him a chance._ She pauses, taking a deep breath, discouraged by having to explain herself to her friends and confused as to why she feels the need to make a stand for a man she hardly knows. _I did._

 

Andrea looks at her, stunned. Then, ever so softly, the initial shock drifts away, sadness taking over in its stead. Gently, she reaches across the couch to take Carol's hand, giving it a firm squeeze. _You had to, sweetie._

 

The words take Carol by surprise. She can not seem to mute their echo, even after Lori, in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood, begins to ask Andrea about how Amy is doing in her first year of college. As Andrea begins to recount late night phone calls, tanned boys in shorts, study sessions and tears, Carol finds herself spiraling.

 

She _had_ to. Andrea is right. What other choice did she have except giving Daryl a chance? It is no surprise, merely something she has not put into those exact words. And still, phrased like that, the fact suddenly rests heavily in her chest.

 

Is she only as hopeful about the future because she has to be? Is the necessity (and her desperate longing) for Daryl’s support the only reason that she has been as dedicated to get to know him, and to make this work?

 

For years, she has allowed Ed to get away with too much, because she believed that she had no other choice. Running was no option, not until she was pushed. Pushing Daryl away is no option now, but is that truly the only reason why she finds such strange comfort in his quiet company? Or is she falling into the same pattern as before, surrendering to her fate?

 

The buzz of a phone pulls her from her trance. _Jacqui's stuck in traffic. She won't be here until dinner_ , Lori sighs, disappointed, stuffing her phone back into the pockets of her baggy jeans. Carol notes how tired her friend looks, guilt stirring inside of her for not noticing before.

 

 _So, how's work, Carol?_ Andrea asks before Carol can string together words kind and gentle enough to ask Lori what is wrong. After a second of re-organizing her thoughts, she feels her cheeks heat up.

 

 _I'm thinking about quitting, actually._ The thought is still brand new, fresh and unformed, and revealing it now feels a little premature. But as nervous as the idea makes her, Carol also savors the excitement and promise of a new start.

 

 _What?_ Andrea and Lori asks simultaneously, both of them scooting to the edges of their seats. Carol finds herself the focus of two pairs of wide eyes.

 

 _I can't manage the shifts at the hospital, not with a baby and Sophia_ , she explains, and as if to remind her, the dull ache in her lower back is pushed into her consciousness, along with a yawn she only barely manages to prevent.

 

 _What are you going to do?_ Lori sounds concerned, and rightly so, Carol guesses.

 

 _I ran into Patricia at the market the other day_ , she recounts, adjusting into a more comfortable position on the couch. _She mentioned that Mrs Greene is ill. They're looking for a nurse to take care of her, and she asked me if I know anyone who's available. I told her I'd keep an eye out, but I'm thinking about applying myself. It wouldn't be as hectic as the hospital, and they know me. I used to work there during the summers, remember?_ Andrea nods, although she is not looking entirely convinced.

 

The prospect of returning to the Greene farm after so long is more alluring than Carol likes to admit. Those summers have been some of the best of her life. Of course, the money would be much less than she earns now, a fact which she decides neither Andrea nor Lori need to be fed at this point. But with support from Daryl, she is confident she can make it work.

 

 _Carol, I told you I can help_ , Lori presses, and Carol is surprised by the hint of disappointment she detects in her eyes. _Anything you need._

 

 _I know, Lori_ , she sighs, smiling bitterly. _And I'm so grateful. For everything._ When Lori parts her lips, taking a deep breath that raises her shoulders, Carol lifts her hand. _No, don't. I_ do _want your help, but you can not give me all the help I'd need._ She hates the feeling of owing people, especially her friend, and most especially the debt she knows she can never repay. _I can't ask that of you._

 

The words seem to soothe Lori a little, a smile curling her lips. _I don't mind._ Too late, Carol notices that the smile does not reach Lori's eyes. _I'd love to have a baby in the house again._

 

For a moment, that confession swells in the silence that follows, threatening to burst, and Carol finds herself quickly locking eyes with Andrea. She finds the same questions there, and the same suffocating realization.

 

But the matter is dropped before they can pick it up when the front door bursts open and four pairs of feet shuffle through the hallway. Carl and Sophia come crashing into the living room, their shoes and coats still on, barely catching their breaths as they begin to tell a fantastical tale of their trip. Rick and Shane follow not long after, both grinning broadly, and the joy in the room could be complete.

 

But suddenly, behind her friend's loving smile as she helps Carl unzip his coat, Carol can detect the sheer scope of Lori's sadness.

 

It leaves a sour taste in her mouth, and an empty feeling in her heart.

 

* * *

 

 

This is the most flustered she has seen Daryl in the few weeks they have been trying to grow accustomed to each other. 

 

 

All she had wanted to do was use his bathroom, but somewhere along her way down the narrow hallway of his apartment, Carol must have gotten his directions mixed up. When she pulled the last door on the right open, she noticed her mistake immediately, nearly stumbling straight into his bedroom.

 

It feels like an intrust ion, too intimate, and so she quickly moves to retreat and shut the door. But when her eyes fall on a whole array of books scattered on his bed, pushed so closely to the door that it barely opens, she hesitates. Once her eyes scan across the various titles, her feet have forgotten how to move entirely.

 

She is not sure how to feel. Surprised? Definitely. Overwhelmed? A little, perhaps. Intimidated? A fraction. 

 

_Guide to Childbirth_ is flipped open; she recognizes it without the need to see the cover. The very same book, perhaps an older version, is gathering dust in her bookshelf at home, read and highlighted and dotted with post its years ago when she was pregnant with Sophia. Daryl has done the same thing, she notes, slightly amused and nearly blinded by the pink, blue and neon green slips of paper that peak out from between the pages. 

 

On his pillow, she spots  _What To Expect When You Are Expecting_ . It looks untouched, the spine in splendid condition, unlike some of the other book whose titles she now curiously files away into her memory.  _The Expectant Father: Facts, Tips, and Advice for Dads-to-Be_ . The sight of it fills her with a strangely bittersweet sensation. Ed never once bothered to pick up a book, and now, she finds herself taking a step further into the room to investigate a small library. It sheds a different light on Daryl's oddly sweet messages, and his hesitant questions. 

 

Carol picks up a book that rests on his nightstand, turning it around in her hands. The title makes her chuckle.  _Don't Just Stand There: How to Be Helpful, Clued-In, Supportive, Engaged, Meaningful, and Relevant in the Delivery Room_ . Then, however, a thought invades her mind, one that allows a small wave of panic to rush through her system. It is only heightened when she spots a similar book on the bed.  _The Birth Partner._

 

Is Daryl seriously considering and preparing to be in the room when their baby is born? Carol freezes on the spot, the soft carpet giving in beneath her weight. She can feel the indentations she leaves, knowing they might not fade quickly enough to hide the fact that she was in here. In this moment, however, she finds herself not caring about being caught.

 

Ed had not been with her. Instead, he had roamed to halls of the hospital, only checking in on her every few hours, asking the nurses repetitive questions about how long it would take. He had seemed bothered, annoyed that their daughter's birth was interfering with his daily routines. Once Sophia had been placed in her arms, red-faced and squealing, Carol fooled herself into believing that she spotted a hint of softness in Ed's eyes. 

 

She had been all alone, in pain, confused and scared. Even now, she has been convinced that that would be her fate once more, and it has become something she accepted.

 

The unexpected idea of Daryl in there with her, seeing her like that, is somehow more frightening than facing it all alone. 

 

Suddenly, Daryl's presence in the other room turns frightening. Carol has made a choice not to be afraid around him, after spending too many years of her life living in fear of a person close to her. Their lives are now intertwined. It is alright to be afraid of the future, she decides. But she will not let her old demons trick her into fearing him. So, she shakes off any thoughts about the birth, deciding instead that they still have months to bring up this particular conversation.

 

Remembering how badly she needs to pee, Carol carefully puts the book back down on the nightstand, giving it a slight nudge so that it looks as if it had never been moved. Once more, her eyes take in the display of books. A flicker of shame rises inside of her, because unlike Daryl, she has not put much effort into refreshing her knowledge about pregnancy. With the exception of a few Google searches about heartburn, constipation and preventing stretch marks, Carol has so far only relied on what she remembers from her first time. 

 

She is already taking a step back when she spots another book, hidden partly beneath a worn copy of  _Dude, You're Gonna Be A Dad!_ Recognizing it despite only a small part of the cover being visible, Carol suddenly feels terribly cold. She has never read this book, but has picked it from the shelf at the book store nearly a dozen times, never brave enough to take it home.  _Treating Survivors of Childhood Abuse: Psychotherapy for the Interrupted Life_ . In this moment, everything Daryl has ever hesitantly muttered about his father, every small slip of information, even the way he shies away from kindness – it all shines in a new light. One that is not warm and gentle and fuzzy. It is a cold light, white and glaring, causing cold sweat to break out across Carol's skin.

 

_That ain't the bathroom_ . Carol jumps, heart pounding. When she turns, Daryl is standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, hands tucked into his armpits. He looks a little pale, she notices, feeling as if all her blood has been drained from her body, as well. 

 

_Sorry_ , she stutters, quickly hurrying to push past him into the hallway.  _Got the wrong door._

 

When she locks the bathroom door behind her, tears prickle in her eyes. 

 

Every broken piece of them falls into place. She understands him now. 

 

But at what cost?

 

 

 

_Enjoy the pizza!_ Carol is convinced that it must be Glenn's voice carrying through the hallway and into the living room. A second later, the front door falls closed, and Daryl's head pops into the door frame. 

 

_Ya need a plate?_ he asks, holding up the pizza boxes with one hand. Carol shakes her head, scooting towards the edge of the couch and into a straighter position. The last misstep she needs today is to smear cheese and tomato sauce all over Daryl’s couch.

 

He has been quiet since her return from the bathroom, their earlier conversation about her potentially applying for the job at the Greene farm dropped in favor of a silent wait for their food. The couch dips slightly when Daryl sits down, steam and the smell of cheese filling her nose when he hands her her pizza. 

 

They both dig in without ceremony, and Carol is glad for having an actual excuse not to talk, chewing a little too thoroughly on each bite. After three slices, Daryl, however, suddenly seems to have a change of heart. 

 

With a sigh, he puts his pizza down, shoving the box into the middle of the coffee table. _I ain't got a clue about babies, that's why I got all them books._

 

Carol's forehead crinkles in confusion, not sure how to take his need to apologize. Swallowing, she wipes her fingers on a greasy tissue, dropping it into the box. 

 

_You don't have to explain that_ , she reassures him. He looks at her a little shyly.  _Ed never picked up a book. He didn't care._ The words are tinged with anger rather than sadness, and Daryl nods.

 

 _And this is your first time, after all_ , Carol quips, taking another bite of her pizza. The slice of tomato proves too much of a challenge for her teeth, dropping messily onto the leftover slices. She rolls her eyes in annoyance, but quickly catches the blush on Daryl's face that envies the tomato slice.

 

 _Wait, it wasn't actually your first time, was it?_ Carol wants to slap herself the second the words slip from her mouth. Where on Earth did that come from? Her shock only lasts for a fragment of a second before she recovers, deciding to go with this sudden daring version of herself to avoid further embarrassment. She grins, knowing she must look ridiculous with her mouth still full of pizza.

 

 _Stop_ , Daryl mumbles, but the smile that just barely seems to tickle his lips is a small reward that she will cherish. He is lost in thought for a moment, obviously toying with words that rest on the edge of his tongue. When he speaks them, his face is turned towards his lap. _Was it that bad?_

 

Carol considers her options for a moment, attempting to come up with a witty reply. In the end, she decides to go with the truth. _It wasn't bad at all._ She keeps the fact that she has little to compare it to to herself, for his sake.

 

So far, they have avoided discussing... that. Carol saw no point in it. Having sex with Daryl had been brazen enough. What good would talking about it do?

 

Even now, she is eager to drop the matter as quickly as possible, cursing herself for bringing it up in the first place.

 

 _I can feel the baby move sometimes._ It is a blatantly obvious attempt to change the subject, but Daryl does not seem too upset about it. Instead, his eyes widen slightly in wonder.

 

_Really?_

 

She nods. _It's barely a flutter, though. I felt it with Sophia, as well. But back then I had no idea what it was._ When it happens now, once every few days, it always catches her off guard. The sensation is as light as the flutter of a butterfly's wing, but its impact is so strong that her heart muscles seem to tense each time.

 

With the mood steered into a lighter and less compromising direction, both of them turn their attention back towards their food, but every now and then, Carol feels his eyes on her.

 

 

 

_So, I was thinking that in a few months, we could renovate my dad's old study_ , Carol suggests, stuffing the empty and greasy pizza box into the trash.  _Ed and I never really used it, but it could be a nice nursery. My dad really loved wooden panels on the wall, though. It's so dark_ , she leans her hip against the kitchen counter, watching as Daryl pours her a glass of water.  _He wouldn't mind us tearing them off the walls, though._

 

She takes the glass from Daryl’s hand with a grateful smile, but does not fail to notice the curiosity he tries to hide. Choosing to wait for him to say whatever he is holding back, she gulps down some of the water.

 

_What happened to ya folks?_

 

Old pain curses through her veins. His question opens a floodgate, awakening grief that she has locked away in a dark and lonely, almost inaccessible corner of her heart. Putting down the class, Carol releases a whooshing breath.

 

 _Dad had lung cancer. He was diagnosed a week before graduation, but he didn't tell me until after._ She chuckles bitterly, her father's stubbornness still infuriating, even after all this time. _Inoperable. He never smoked a cigarette in his life._ Anger that she has long since forgotten reawakens, and she notices how uncomfortable Daryl suddenly seems, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

 

 _He really wanted to fight it. But then..._ She hesitates, despite remembering it all so sharply, so vividly. It's funny how some painful memories turn foggy over time, and how others stay crystal clear to haunt you whenever they chose to creep into your conscious. _Mom had a stroke two months later. Out of the blue._ Daryl looks solemn, listening quietly to her story. Carol does not want him to feel as guilty about his question as he looks, but there is no strength in her to sugarcoat the truth. _She died in the hospital two days later. Dad just..._ His face haunts her until this day, bloodshot eyes, hollowed cheeks, a ghost of the man that brightened her childhood. _He just gave up after that. He died just after Christmas._

 

It is not the answer he wanted to hear, which is why she assumes he waited so long to ask. Then again, what did he expect? Neither of them have lived the sort of life that allows for naive or hopeful dreaming, she knows that now. Her parents did not move away to live in a cottage by the sea. They are just gone.

 

 _'m sorry_ , Daryl mutters hoarsely. The words do not ease the pain. Nothing ever could. After a while, Carol simply learned how to blend it out, and eventually forget that it is her constant companion.

 

 _Your parents are dead_. She can not just ask him bluntly about his father. Not when he has shown her he courtesy of avoiding the subject of Ed almost entirely. Surely, he must have his suspicions about those aspects of her marriage that she now knows connect them in a sad and unexpected way.

 

He nods, not looking quite as upset about it as she feels. _Hardly remember my ma'._ For a moment, his eyes drift away, to a time long passed. To a young boy in his mother's arms, and to the day all those memories were annihilated by gulping flames. _An' the world's a better place without my old man in it._

 

He looks at her expectantly after she takes in his words, and the forcefulness of his expression makes Carol wonder if he knows exactly what she found earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for the slight delay on this chapter. I had a pretty terrible day at work last week, and decided not to write for two days to re-organize my thoughts. And then it felt like I lost my mojo a little, but I'm proud to have finished this chapter at all this week.
> 
> Sophia's determination that the baby will be a boy was inspired by an actual kid at work whose mom is pregnant, and he is 100% convinced the baby will be a girl because: "I already have a brother." That logic was so sweet, it deserved to make it into the fic.


	5. week twenty.

**week twenty.**

 

Carol buries her gloved hands in the pockets of her puffy coat, tilting her head until her chin disappears behind the thick wool of her scarf. The weather has taken a turn for the worse overnight, and she had been unprepared for the thin layer of resistant ice that covered the windows of her car this morning.

 

Now, the late afternoon sun kissing the planes of grass in the park, dusted with another fine layer of ice, sparkling and pristine, she cherishes every source of warmth she can find. Inside her pockets she curls her fingers into fists, toes wiggling within the confines of her boots, and there seems nothing grander than her own breath warming the lower half of her face.

 

Daryl has scooted a little closer to her on the freezing bench when he notices her teeth clattering. She has not said a word about it, instead welcoming the warmth that radiates from his side.

 

Across the pebble path and small clearing, Carl and Sophia are making themselves comfortable on two rusty swings, small gloved hands curling around the surely freezing chain. But the cold does not bother them. Quite the opposite, it delights them, cheery laughter carrying across the distance.

 

_I think Sophia wants a brother so badly because she think it'll be like having Carl around all day_ , Carol muses, partly to herself and partly to Daryl, who has not spoken more than a handful of words since she had picked him up, Carl and Sophia playing a game of I Spy in the backseat that he was made an unwilling but ambitious participant of. _She doesn't have many friends._ Her voice shifts at the words. _Ed would never allow her to go to someone else's house, and he hated having other kids over. So she really only ever got to play with Carl when we visited Lori and Rick._

 

It was not her intention to have a discussion about this, and she wants to scold herself for bringing up the subject at all, especially on a beautiful day like this. The park is nearly abandoned, not many people drawn outside once the temperatures dropped. But fortunately, Daryl has a unique way of understanding exactly when she actually attempts to begin a debate, and when she is merely scraping away at her own walls, revealing small puzzle pieces of information. He soaks those up like a sponge, she has noticed.

 

_Ya sure I should meet 'em?_ he asks after a minute, forcing Carol to comb through her own words to figure out what he is talking about. The answer comes to her quickly. Last week, Lori had suggested inviting Daryl over for dinner at her house. Carol had been surprised, but not exactly in a bad way, by Lori's sudden attempt to make up for her lack of voiced support in the matter of giving the father of Carol's baby a chance. Daryl, however, had reacted less ecclesiastically, blushing and nibbling on his thumb instead of simply refusing the offer. Eventually, he had reluctantly agreed. Not for himself, Carol understands that perfectly. She adds it to the ever growing list of small things he does for her and for their baby.

 

_Well, sooner or later you'll have to._ He is wearing nothing but that same old denim jacket and leather vest, and Carol can not understand how he is not even slightly bothered by the cold. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his pants, but that is all the protection he seeks. She tries to speak the words with a chuckle, but it never sounds quite as genuine as she intends. _And they'll get over themselves, trust me._ She has not gone into too many details about her friends' inhibitions about him, afraid of hurting his feelings or casting all their process away. He gets it, though, deciphers the truth from her evading gaze and nervous reassurances.

 

_They think I'm some drunk asshole like my old man?_ Bitterness lines his words, and he stares ahead towards the swing where Carl and Sophia are now swaying back and forth hesitantly before picking up momentum, chatting about topics they can not make out from the distance.

 

_They have nothing to go by except, well... rumors._ It is no excuse, and Carol still feels anger and disappointment simmering inside of her, but it is the only explanation that is reasonable. _Andrea thinks your brother killed him, you know?_ This time, she does chuckle, and it sounds silly, all muffled and consumed by her scarf.

 

Sophia squeals as she jumps off the swing, ducking her head to avoid the weathered plastic seat from hitting her face. Carl follows not long after, leaping through the air and landing in a swirl of crunching pebbles. They barely take a moment to catch their breaths before they scramble back towards the swings.

  
_He did._ Carol hears the words, understands them immediately in their simplicity, no matter how quietly they have been spoken, a mutter so hesitant and yet so convincing that she has to make sure.

  
_Excuse me?_ Her eyes fix on him, on his light stubble and the blue of his eyes, a match for the winter sky.

  
_He killed him._

 

There it is. A hole blown into his wall, wide as an ocean, causing the remainders to crumble and weep red dust. Like a fire lit between them.

 

_I..._ Carol trips over all the words she can think of, yet not a single one seems appropriate. _How... But if you know that why-_

  
  
The frantic speed of her words has Daryl alert, quickly chancing a glance over his shoulder to reassure himself that they are alone. _I don't know. Never saw nothin', never heard nothin'._ As she listens intently and with lips parted in shock, Carol's memory tries to uncover every information about Will Dixon's death that she once carelessly stuffed away in dusty and rusted corners of her brain.

  
  
_Merle didn't tell me. I ain't got any proof._ Daryl seems to be far away, eyes glazed and unfocused. She does not miss his hands tightening into fists inside his pockets, or the tension in his jawline. _But I know he did it._

  
  
Oddly enough, the words escape him with a sense of relief that confirms to her that he has never talked about this to another living soul. But there is a different kind of relief hidden between the lines, one that unsettles her.

  
  
_The old man never went huntin' when he was drunk. Don't have many good memories of the guy 'cept for when we were out there._ Another crack opens, plaster breaking off and the crumbs carried away by the chilly wind. He has never truly spoken about his father except for crude remarks. Now, he lets her share in different sort of memories. Softer and happier ones that burn all the more for their beauty. She has those, too. Sunny memories of dancing and laughing and kissing Ed, feeling like the prettiest and most important girl in the room. The joy they harbor is difficult to accept. _Teachin' me. Pretending to give a damn. So why'd he drink that day?_

  
  
For the first time since his confession, Daryl dares to briefly glance at Carol. What he seeks in her eyes, she cannot be sure. But from the way he quickly drops his gaze to the ground, she understands he did not find it.

  
  
_An' Merle always talked about it. Said that's why he left all the time, so he wouldn't kill him. Merle was always outta town, even when he wasn't in jail._ There is a moment of hesitation, a fragile second where she sees him for a little brother, left behind in this town with nothing to offer him. _That's why I know he did it. Cause the son of a bitch bit the dust and Merle still disappeared._

  
  
Finally, he sounds a little upset. Carol is not sure how to feel or how to react, faced with a confession that blows her imagination to pieces.

  
  
_Haven't heard of him in ages. Made damn sure I wouldn't know a thing about it, though._

  
  
He falls quiet when an elderly couple approaches them on the gravel path, arms linked, greeting them with a polite nod. Neither of them misses the pursed lips, however, or the woman turning her head for one last, spiteful glance.

  
  
_You never said anything to the police?_ Her attempt to keep her voice clear of all judgment succeeds just barely. She tries to imagine what she would do if somebody she truly loved and cared about, someone like Lori, who is like a sister to her, would commit such a crime. Kill a person who hurt her. Would she betray her?

  
_Couldn't have proved it._ Daryl shrugs, chewing on his next words for a few moments. _And I get why he did it. I know why._

 

Nimble fingers tug at her scarf, and Carol barely feels the piercing of the cold that hits her dampened skin. She does not want to hide behind brown wool, not when Daryl just laid bare his soul for her to tear apart.

  
  
_Just never figured out why he didn't do it sooner. Back when he still lived here, back when the old man still..._ He swallows, his throat bopping so deftly that she feels the pain's echo in her own throat. Even after everything he just admitted, he still can not speak of it, of his childhood and the horrors he must have endured and survived. _Didn't get it until all this._ He pulls a hand from his pockets, waving limply at her stomach, the still small bump hidden beneath her coat. Carol does not quite understand what he means, brows furrowing, although her skin feels too tight from the cold. _He did it for me._

  
  
Carol is not prepared for the bitter and slightly aggravated sadness that drags between them, seeping from his words like fluids from a wound. He huffs, a strangely deformed sound resembling a laughter. _Never did nothin' like that his whole life. Gave me a chance._ Daryl pauses, fumbling with a loose string on his pants, sighing. _That's why he disappeared. Why he didn't wanna involve me._

  
  
Sophia waves in their direction, cheeks glowing and eyes half hidden beneath her frizzy hat. With a thin-lipped smile, Carol responds, watching her daughter follow Carl up the metal steps to the slide.

  
  
_Why are you telling me this?_ she asks with her face set in stone, only turning to face Daryl when he does not reply. Then again, she has not really expected an answer.

  
  
His shrug tells tales, but he does not seem to know the answer to her question, either. Perhaps she pushed him into a corner with her joking remark on Andrea's suspicion and he only came clean to avoid feeding her a lie. Or the words just burst out of him after years of welling up beneath the surface.

  
  
There is one more question that rests heavily on Carol's chest. When she finally gathers enough courage to ask, a few minutes have passed in silence. The sky above is clear and blue, a few stray white lines spanning across the canvas, reminders of planes that have long since passed.

  
  
_Would you have done it?_ Daryl looks at her with frightful hesitation, clearly as unsettled by his revelation as Carol is. _Kill him?_

  
  
In the few moments that Daryl seems to get lost in his thoughts, Carol struggles with herself and how to handle his answer. Does she truly want to know? Wouldn't that confirm everything her friends are so suspicious about, give reason for the elderly woman to eye them with such disdain?

  
  
But then, quietly but growing in intensity with each drum if her heart, Carol hears the echo of everything Ed has ever sneered or shouted at her, and feels the phantom pain of his hands on her, around her, inside her.

  
  
_Nah_ , Daryl eventually sighs, sounding much more convinced than Carol suddenly finds herself to be. _If I could, I'd have done it a long time ago._

  
  
It is time to drop the matter, Carol decides when her own thoughts are veiled in a burning darkness that terrifies her. Instead, she chooses to take a risk and use Daryl's confession as a way behind his walls.

  
  
_I saw the book_ , she confesses quietly. There is no need to state exactly which one. Since that afternoon a month ago, Carol has been convinced that he knows exactly what she found. _And..._ It is discouraging to see Daryl bury his hand inside his pocket again, eyes straying away from her and towards the bare trees. _I don't know what your father did, and you don't have to say._ She can not demand that from him, not when the idea of recounting the horrors of her marriage in detail and not by her own free will chills the blood in her veins. _But I need you to know that you are not him._

 

In a bold move that startles her as much as it does Daryl, whose eyes are immediately fixed on hers with all his blood racing into his cheeks, she grabs his wrist. Tugging gently, she pulls his hand from his pocket and places it on her belly, cushioned by her coat. _This baby, it will not grow up the way you did. I know that._ Most likely, he can not feel a thing, but the pressure of his hand where their baby is growing fills her with new-found confidence. A confidence she needs him to feel, as well. _You won't let that happen. I won't._ He does not mirror her smile, but his eyes soften and he never pulls his hand away. That is enough. _You're different._

  
  
With a little fumbling, Daryl turns his hand, his fingers interlacing with hers. It is an oddly distant sensation though the thick wool of her gloves, and were it not for the honey-sweet comfort that fills her in this moment, she'd take off her glove to soak up the warmth of his skin. _I'm tryin'_ , Daryl mutters, directed more towards himself than at her.

  
  
_More than that_ , she reassures him. So much more, but maybe he is not quite ready to accept that, yet.

  
  
Sophia and Carl have apparently started to lose interest in the playground, leaping in turns across the grass as they slowly make their way back to them.

  
  
_You gonna tell Rick?_

  
  
Daryl does not sounds as worried as he probably could have, and that fact alone comforts Carol. He trusts her with this information, and she will protect whatever small piece of trust he offers. _No. As far as I can see, you're just making assumptions._

  
  
With a nod, Daryl pulls his hand away from hers, casting a careful glance towards the giggling children that are approaching them. _He ain't a killer, ya know?_

  
  
Her hand feels unexpectedly empty without his. _I get it_ , she whispers, careful to keep her voice down with her daughter just a few yards away. Without noticing, she has curled her fingers into a fists, keeping alive a slight amount of pressure to substitute for Daryl's hand. _Believe it or not, I really do._

 

senior year/november 2006:

 

The rain is hammering down on the roof like mad, and with an angry groan Daryl throws his history book across his room. It slams noisily against the wall, landing on his bed with a thud. The lamp on his desk flickers from the impact, the light bulb slowly dying, in desperate need of replacement. He adds it to his mental list of everything in this place that needs fixing.

 

On that thought, he slides from his chair, bare feet hitting the cold ground. The heater in his room has been broken for longer than he can remember, and the cold hardly bothers him anymore. He really should check if the leak in the living room that he fixed a few weeks back has not burst again from the pressure of the rain. More water soaking into the deadbeat floor boards would only upset the old man again, not to mention the nasty smell of rotting wood that never really fades.

 

Stepping into the living room is a whole other world, the signature dry heat of a space heater crawling into his clammy clothes. Warmth is very small a comfort, though, and Daryl hardly notices the way his fingers start to feel less numb, or the slight rush of blood to his face.

 

_Fuck_. A sharp pain shoots through his foot. Looking down, he sees his father's red lighter on the ground, sticking out from beneath the sole of his foot where it digs into the skin. He kicks it away, watches as it disappears in a stack of magazines. Porn, bikes, TV program, newspapers from when he was still a kid.

 

Pushing past the old man's chair, Daryl takes in the sight of the ceiling. The stain from the last leak is still there, ugly and moldy. But his father had refused to buy paint to at least cover it up, and Daryl sure hell wasn't going to spend what little money he earned working at the garage the past few summers to fix up this hellhole. Not when he is going to get out of this place as soon as possible.

 

It looks dry now, he notes, relieved that he will not have to climb up onto the roof in this downpour. Grabbing a half-empty can of beer from the coffee table, he walks over to the small kitchen squeezed into the corner of the room. He chucks the remains of the drink into the sink, watching at the yellow liquid bubbles down the drain, before tossing the empty can into the overflowing bin.

 

Dirty dishes pile up next to the sink, and for a moment, he considers cleaning them before the leftovers on the plates grow legs. But one brief glance at the empty dish soap bottle dismisses that idea immediately.

 

Instead, he grabs an apple from the far end of the counter, buried partly underneath unopened mail and empty take-out boxes. He turns the fruit in his hand, checking to make sure that it has not been lying there for the past month, but nothing stands out. Quite the opposite, it's red and glossy and about the the best thing he has eaten all day. The juice coats his tongue, and his own chewing is so loud that it mutes the rain for a few blissful seconds.

 

Rapid knocking at the front door ends the moment abruptly. Confused, Daryl puts the apple down on the counter, swallowing the last bite. For a moment, he does not move, waiting. Then the knocking picks up again, louder and even more insistent this time.

 

Nobody ever knocks on this door. Nobody except the police.

 

The knocking only increases as he crosses the room, fingers trembling as he opens the door. A gust of cold wind welcomes him, splattering stray rain into his face.

 

But instead of a police officer, he is faced with the last person he expected to show up on his doorstep.

 

_Carol?_ His voice is embarrassingly high, her name a strangely twisted yelp.

 

She speaks up before the last syllable has passed his lips. _Can I come in?_

 

He wants to say no. No because the old man could be back any minute. No because he does not want her, or anyone else, to see what this place looks like from the inside. But she is soaked through, her hair plastered to her face, lips quivering from the cold wind that bites across the lawn, and she looks furious.

 

He coughs, stepping back to make room for her to push inside. The door creaks as it closes, and he has to push against it roughly for the weathered wood to fall into its frame. Carol stands there, dripping rain all over the floor, staring at him with such intensity that he wants to crawl into the night and disappear.

 

Of course he knows why she is here, but that does not soften the blow of surprise to actually see her here, in the middle of his living room, in between his father's crap.

 

_Can I put my coat on there to dry? It's soaked._ Carol points towards the heater, and Daryl stares at the rusty white thing for a good long while, a lump forming in his throat. He wants to kick himself in the ass for being this awkward, clearing his throat a little too loudly.

 

_Sure._

 

He watches in silence as she unzips her coat, folds it over the heater. Then, pale hands reach up to untie her scarf from around her neck, placing it next to her coat. She turns then, and he does not miss her eyes scanning across the small room.

 

There is no judgment in her gaze, but she looks out of place, suddenly unsure, some of her anger deflated. _This is about 'em handouts, right?_ he mumbles, scratching his chin.

 

He had tried. Really. Started working on them last week right after leaving her place, eager to do this right and not confirm all of her worries about him. Sure, she had been nice to him, but he could see the hesitation in her eyes even when she smiled at him or tried to make a joke to lighten the awfully tense mood. Her ass of a boyfriend did not help, hovering and staring at him with stone set malice in his eyes.

 

_Listen, Daryl_ , she starts, sounding a lot softer than he anticipated. He had expected her to yell at him, call him names and make crude remarks, just like everyone else always does. Instead, she sighs. _I know you've got stuff. I heard about your brother, and I'm sorry about that._ The entire town knows that Merle is back in jail, so it does not necessarily surprise Daryl that she brings this up. It is the way she weaves her words that catches him off guard. She genuine sounds sorry. That does not make him feel like less of a piece of shit for not finishing those hand outs on time and earning them a massive bout of extra work, though. It feels unfamiliar, to be treated like this by her, with something that resembles what he slowly and laboriously has come to know as respect over the years.

 

_But we've all got stuff, and you said you'd do this._ The disappointment in her voice is a low blow. _And when you say you'll do something, you don't half-ass it or not do it at all._ Carol throws her arms in the air in a defeated move, and only now does Daryl realize how frustrated she seems. _Then just go ahead and say you won't do it._

 

He does not want to tell her about the fact that the power has been out for three days this week because the old man did not pay the pills. Or about the sleepless nights because of the screams and moans and barking laughter next door. Not about the history class he is almost entirely sure he will fail. Or his mother's birthday on Wednesday, a day his father chose to bring home his latest waitress of the week. Those are reasons, but they are not excuses, and he does not want to explain his failure away.

 

_'m sorry_ , he mutters instead, looking down at the ratty door mat. His feet have grown cold again from the draft that squeezes through a crack in the door, but it does not compare to the cold chill that runs through him at feeling Carol's gaze fixed on him.

 

_I talked to Mr Gimple._ Daryl looks up at her words, interested in what she has to say. When they last talked to the guy this morning, he had yelled at them – mostly at him – about the importance of meeting deadlines and what that means for their future careers and their role as valuable members of society. He still wants to roll his eyes at that, and the horrid tie he'd been wearing. But then a soft smile tugs at Carol's lips.

 

She looks pretty, he notices all of a sudden, and it hits him like a train. Not pretty in the way his father's latest girlfriend did. Big boobs spilling out of her white top, long fingernails painted in the same shade of red as her lips. Blonde hair down her back and black charcoal lining her eyes. She had been pretty, smiling a shy smile at him this morning in the kitchen, pouring him a cup of coffee before his father marched in and took it for himself. Daryl thinks that her name had been Wendy, and she had looked weary and tense when her father wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into his bare chest.

 

No. Carol is pretty in a different way. Pale skin dusted with freckles like the night sky is covered in stars. Her red hair slowly drying in the dry heat, frizzy and untamed around her soft face. Blue eyes like a hot summer's day. She has long legs and long arms, wrapped in white washed jeans and a brown sweater. Everything about her looks young and soft.

 

He shakes off the thoughts before he can get lost in them. There is no point to thinking like this. He is nothing but the idiot who screwed up their assignment, who stands here in front of her in a room that smells like sweat and booze and cold smoke, wearing patched-up sweat pants, no balls to look her into the eyes for longer than a second at a time.

 

Pretty things don't last. They wilt and wither away.

 

His mom had been pretty. Long dark hair, pink nails and a gentle smile, humming soft tunes, but she turned into ash. Spring with all its colors is pretty, but summer burns it all away year after year. Snow is pretty, but it melts each time.

 

_We have until Wednesday,_ Carol announces with pride, and Daryl can not help but wonder how she managed that. It makes him feel both better and worse. Worse because she had to fix a mess he caused, and better because she just gave him a second chance to prove that he can do better. She takes a cautious step towards him, kneading her hands. They must still be cold, he guesses, finding his own buried in the pockets of his pants. _Do you think you can finish it until then? Or do I have to it?_

 

He shakes his head with vigor. _I'll do it. Ain't gonna half-ass it._ It is a promise, even though Carol might not quite understand the significance of his words. Nevertheless, she smiles, looking pleased.

 

When she starts discussing her ideas for the layout, Daryl considers offering her a seat. They still stand there awkwardly in the middle of the room after all. But he would never make her sit in his father's chair, and the couch is littered with clothes and trash and god-knows-what. His room is clean and tidy, but asking her in there is too forward, just the thought making him blush. If she notices, she does not say, and she never makes a move to sit, either.

 

Instead, she makes suggestions and asks him for his opinion, praises his ideas and listens as he rambles about the story. Finally, he saw the meaning in the end, after reading it for a second time. A rush of disappointment hits him when she looks surprised at his efforts, but he swallows it without further comment. He has not done much to prove her inhibitions about him wrong, after all.

 

As easy as it is to discuss with her, throw ideas back and forth and allow his mind to spin, he is kept on edge by the ever looming fear of his father. He is late, and could be home any minute. Carol does not need to suffer through that, through sly remarks and sleazy smiles, or worse: drunken yells and grabby, dirty hands.

 

Eventually, all their ideas have been shared, and that makes her presence in his house unnecessary and awkward. But she is merciful, not planning to linger, and he watches her as she zips up her partly dried coat and wraps her scarf around her long neck. 

 

Walking up to the door, she scans his face deliberately, just before her eyes flicker back towards the mess of a room. Her hand lingers on the doorknob, and outside the wind howls.

 

_You okay?_ she asks quietly, her forehead crinkling.

 

He is not sure what brought up this question, but it unsettles him because she has no right to make him answer this truthfully. Of course he is not okay, that much should be clear to everyone with eyes and ears, especially her now that she has seen this shack. Why bother with asking when the answer is written plainly across his face? _Gotta be_ , he huffs, feeling ridiculous as his face morphs into a grimaced smile that lasts not even a second before it gives way for a sullen look.

 

She chews on her next words for a while, eyes sober and clear and seemingly looking through all of his bullshit. Then, softly, barely noticeable, she shakes her head. _No. It's okay not the be._

 

The words are kind and sweet and full of respect, and he has not even the slightest fucking idea how to deal with any of that. So, before he can stop himself, the next words burst from his mouth in a rough bark, jaw tense and arms suddenly crossed in front of his chest. _Well, I am._

 

Almost immediately, he wants to take back the words and the spite. The hurt expression that he faces is enough to shake him, remind him of his father and his brother and a little boy who hid in his closet as his mother screamed. But before he has time to apologize, Carol pulls open the door with all her strength, the gust of wind meeting them head on. The rain, however, has let up slightly.

 

_I'm sorry, it's none of my business_ , she rambles, halfway out the door by the time he speaks up.

 

_S'alright._

 

She is standing in the rain, slow drops running down her face like tears, and it makes her careful smile all the more important. _Okay. Well, I'll see you tomorrow then._

 

_Yeah._

 

_Bye._ She waves her hand before wrapping her arms around herself, and then she runs off into the night, down the untended lawn and across the gravel driveway to where her car is parked. Daryl shuts the door before more rain can dampen the floor.

 

Looking out of the small window, Daryl's heart drops into the pit of his stomach. The headlights of his father’s truck illuminate the lawn as he passes Carol, her car disappearing into the night. Great. Just his luck.

 

The best thing would probably be to disappear into his room and hope that the old man is too drunk to bother asking him stupid questions. He is still hungry, though, the apple sitting sadly on the counter. The faint sound of a car door falling shut rumbles through the tip tap of the rain, and Daryl moves away from the window, eager to get away.

 

Something catches his eye then, small and easy to miss, glittering in the bright white light of the bare light bulb on the ceiling. He kneels down by the heater, and picks up the silver necklace, holding it gently between his thumb and forefinger. It is a small rose, curved delicately and dangling from a thinly woven chain. This is not any piece of jewelery that his father’s waitresses could afford.

 

Carol must have lost it when she untangled her scarf from around her neck. It looks worn, the silver a little dull in the niches of the rose's blossom.

 

The front door bursts open then, slamming into the wall as his father marches in. Daryl scrambles back onto his feet, black clouding his vision for a moment from the sudden movement. His father stands there with a familiar smirk on his aging face, and Daryl quickly curls his fingers around the necklace, slipping his hand behind his back.

 

It's too late now to disappear into his room, and so he stands there frozen, taking in the sight of the bruise forming around his father's eye, the hickey on his neck and the lipstick stains on his collar. He makes for a sorry sight, sickening and pathetic.

 

_What'ya lookin' at, boy?_ he hollers. He is drunk, but not nearly as drunk as he can be. Daryl knows his way around the man, can tell exactly when to simply slip into his room and when to spend the night with a bedroll in the woods. This is safe, harmless territory, even though the stench of beer is pungent in the air.

 

_Nothin'_ , he replies, itching to get out of here.

 

His father does not seem convinced, narrowing his eyes. _Whose car was that?_ He nods towards the still open door, dangling his key chain from his fingers. When Daryl does not answer, he takes a few steps forward, raising his hoarse voice. _Hey, I asked y'a question!_

 

Really, he could probably just tell him everything and the guy would not remember anything in the morning. But there is the slight chance that he might, and he does not want to burden Carol with that. _Someone from school, doin' a project together._ Slowly, he scoots closer towards his bedroom door.

 

_An' what'ya hidin' there from ya old man?_ He is across the room in a heartbeat, stumbling over his own feet. Still, he has a strong grip, and Daryl puts up next to no fight when he grabs his arm and pulls, grabbing the necklace from his fist. For the past few years, Daryl has outgrown the old man in strength, all the booze finally taking its toll. He could have fought him off easily. Could have broken his arm. But then what? And perhaps the bastard still has it in him, after all. He does not want to find out.

 

It's a nasty feeling of failure that claims him when he watches the necklace dangle from his father's greasy hands. _Oh, look at that. Got himself a lady friend._ An oily chuckle fills the room, a nasty sound accompanied by what could be passed off as a small moment of fatherly pride. The wink makes his stomach churn. _Just make sure ta wrap ya piece if ya slammin' the clam. Any whinin' bitch claimin' her brat is yours ain't my fucking problem._

 

Anger boils in his guts, a familiar rage that he fights hard to contain. _It ain't like that_ , he snarls, watching with curled fists as his father trails a yellow finger along the delicate rose.

 

_Well, then ya won't mind me taking that an' sellin' it if y'ain't gonna wank on it._ Without much care, his father stuffs the necklace into his pockets, but that is too much for Daryl to take without a fight.

 

_Give it back!_ He reaches across the distance, aiming for the old man's wrist. But within a heartbeat, fingers have curled around his arms, digging in. He is right up in his face, his stench filling his nostrils. What truly unsettles Daryl, however, are the old man's eyes. For a brief moment, long enough to drain all his willpower from his body, going slack beneath the crude hold, it feels like looking into a mirror. They are his own eyes.

 

_Or what?_ The whisper sends shivers down his spine, tensing the corded skin there. _Huh? What'ya gonna do, boy?_

 

 

 

Later that night, when his father has passed out in his chair, head swaying against his chest, Daryl sneaks out of his room, quietly searching through the guy's pockets, panicking when he can not find the necklace. He even rummages through the filthy bedroom, but eventually has to give up, slipping into his cold bed empty handed and with a lingering feeling of sadness at the loss.

 

 

 

The next few days, he watches Carol in school, but she does not pay him any more attention than before. Their assignment earns them an A- in the end, even though he stuttered through most of the presentation like a fool. When she still has not brought up the necklace after a month has passed, Daryl decides to keep its loss for himself.

 

She probably has no idea that she lost it at his place.

 

 

 

By the time spring rolls in with blossoming colors and a warm breeze, he has forgotten all about the silver rose.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did not think I'd be able to finish this chapter this week, but I used every free minute and writing turned out to be a breeze. It's darker than I intended it to be, but I felt it was time for some backstory on Daryl. I promise the next chapter will be a little more light-hearted.


	6. week twenty four.

**week twenty four.**

 

 _Looks good._ With a nod, he approves of the green paint she has chosen, and Carol puts the lid back on the bucket, smiling.

 

She is proud of their progress today, and so is Daryl. And pride is something that looks terribly fine on Daryl. He seems less tense, talks more, smiles brighter.

 

Carol picks at a splotch of white paint that has dried on the back of her hand, looking around the room to marvel at their achievement. The once horridly dark wooden panels are now shiny and white, giving the room more brightness. Beneath the thick layer of newspaper, a brand new layer of floorboards is well protected - she still has to chuckle at how frustrated Daryl had been having to put in the new floor before starting to paint. The room still smells faintly of paint and against the far wall, half a dozen boxes of furniture are waiting to be unpacked and assembled, some old and some new.

 

 _So, which wall do ya wanna paint green?_ Daryl scratches the back of his neck, effectively smearing some paint just beneath the ends of his hair. Carol points at the wall by the window, bending down to pick up some adhesive tape from the floor. Her back aches, and so she presses her palm against the small of her back to ease the pain and to give herself some balance.

 

Her belly is still much smaller than it was with Sophia at this stage, but it still stands out proudly with the tight old shirt she is wearing, the seam at one of the sleeves starting to come undone.

 

 _Not the whole wall, though_ , she explains, walking over to run her hands softly over the dried paint. _Just a big square._

 

Daryl nods again, and she has to bite back a smirk when she notices his foot tapping along ever so subtly to the quiet tune on the radio. He seems so at ease today, ever since he nearly tripped through her front door this morning in his overall and loaded with paint brushes, a step ladder and tools.

 

She throws him the tape, not in the least surprised when he catches it with ease. _I want to put up some pictures in the middle_ , she goes on, feeling a blush heating up her cheeks. _I know it's silly, it's a baby and won't have a clue-_

 

 _It ain't silly_ , Daryl reassures her, walking past her closely enough for her to smell paint and motor oil on him. Briefly, she catches herself taking a deep breath, the scent having become familiar and comforting in a way she does not dare explain.

 

Walking over to the window, the late afternoon sun blinding her momentarily, Carol thumbs with the lid of a small cardboard box she had stored there earlier. It is filled with family photographs, but the one she seeks is easily found, and she holds it between her fingers delicately. The sunlight sparkles on the glossy photograph, illuminating her mother’s face – forever young and immortalized on this page with a tender smile on her red lips. Carol explores the depth of her own eyes, follows each red curl that is bunched up against her father's shoulder where she had propped her head. It evokes mellow memories, warm and fuzzy and curling in her belly with a sweet hum.

 

 _That the one ya wanna put up?_ Her heart skips a beat at the hoarse sound of Daryl's voice by her ear. She has not heard him stepping up behind her, but now that she knows of his presence, the warmth radiating off him is all too obvious against her back. Turning her head just enough so his face enters her peripheral vision, Carol swallows. He is standing a little too close, really. But as he looks over her shoulder at the picture with curiosity seeping from his features, she finds that she does not really mind.

 

Nodding, she holds it up for him. _It's my favorite._

 

For a few moments, Daryl stares the three people on the picture, then looks up at her with one of those rare smiles that set her stomach on fire. As if by instinct, her hand comes to rest against the swell of her stomach, feeling the responsive fluttering kick her own nervousness and excitement has evoked.

 

 _Y'all look happy._ It is the sort of thing that should not have to be pointed out when looking at a family photo, and as so often, Carol catches herself mourning the childhood Daryl never got the chance to have.

 

 _We were_ , she replies with a little unfounded guilt that she has resigned to feeling whenever she inevitably has to compare the joys of her childhood against the horrors of his own. Looking down at her mother, she finds herself intrigued by the silver rose on a chain that rests against the lace of her blouse. The sudden ache in her chest brings forth a sad sigh.

 

 _What's wrong?_ Daryl inquires immediately, and she can feel his puzzled stare prickling against the side of her neck.

 

 _I just remembered that necklace_ , she explains with a tinge of long forgotten grief, her fingertip feathering across the small pendant nearly lost against her mother's blouse. _My dad gave it to my mom when I was born._ Oh, how her mother had cherished that necklace, wearing it every day as far back as Carol can remember. She had held it so dearly, no matter how often the chain broke or how foggy the silver became. So dearly, in fact, that they had decided to bury her with it once she had been torn from their lives. _I had a similar one, you see?_ With a rueful smile, Carol points at her own neck on the picture, cradled by auburn curls. Sparkling from the flash, a small sliver of light stands out against her blue shirt. _I loved that necklace._ Daryl looks timid when she looks up at him, eager not to ruin the mood with her joyless tale. _Lost it, though._

 

Shrugging, partly to end this conversation and to rid herself off old disappointment and frustration over losing something she held so dear, Carol carefully puts the picture back into the box, keeping it safe from paint splotches and cleaning solutions.

 

 _Sorry._ Daryl's muttered apology takes her by surprise. After all, he has nothing to apologize for. But before she can playfully tell him off for always taking the blame, he already has his back to her, broad shoulders flexing as he goes off to tape off the selected square on the white wall. Somehow, all her easy remarks are lost in the heaviness he leaves behind.

 

 

 

 _When ya gonna start workin' at the farm?_ Carol stops swirling the screw around in the palm of her hand at Daryl's question, looking up from where she is sitting cross-legged on the floor. He is almost entirely done with the green square, now carefully running a paint brush along the edges of the tape.

 

They have worked in silence since their short-lived conversation about her mother. Or rather: Carol has found herself much more intrigued by watching Daryl apply layer after layer of mossy green paint onto the wall with silent dedication than attempting to put together Sophia's old crib. It looks older and more worn than she remembers, and she can not shake off the thought of granting it a new layer of paint, as well.

 

 _In a few weeks_ , she replies, excitement bubbling up inside of her. After her initial hesitation, she had eventually convinced herself to give it a try and call Hershel Greene about the position. Her fears had nearly gotten the best of her, but none of them manifested once he answered the phone. He remembered her from all those summers ago, and was delighted to hear back from her. One afternoon spent in a vaguely family farm house sitting room with a warm cup of tea later, and she handed in her notice at the hospital. _I'm really looking forward to it._ The smile that tugs at her lips transcends into her voice, giving it a flowing and delicate edge that she longs to master more often. _I loved it there._

 

 _I'm proud of ya_ , Daryl chokes out on a labored breath. It sounds as if every fiber of his being was protesting against the words, but whatever small brave part of him bore them, it has won.

 

 _You are?_ Carol stares at the back of his head, taken aback by his reveal.

 

 _Yeah. Did what ya wanted. Takes balls._ She does not miss how he now takes extra special caution with the brush. Despite it all, a deft laughter ripples through her belly.

 

_I have balls?_

 

Daryl finally throws a glance over his shoulder, unable to hide his smirk. _Hell yeah_. Her playful wink has immediate effect on him when he turns away, but his shoulders move from the pressure of an unreleased laugh.

 

The laughter eventually fades away. They fall back into a comforting, if only semi-productive silence after that. Daryl finishes up the green paint, slowly stepping off the step ladder, wiping his hands on his smudged overalls. With a slightly cocked head, he takes in his handiwork, thumb reaching out to brush away a little excess paint to avoid a bubble from forming. He looks proud when he turns, chuckling when he sees Carol on the floor, surrounded by screws and a half-assembled crib.

 

His chuckle provokes a roll of her eyes, and she throws her hands up in the air in defeat. It's a theatrical move, but it is worth the lightness of his steps, and the brief touch of his hands as he takes the screw from her.

 

Together, they set up the crib in record time, but Carol still eyes it with dissatisfaction throughout the entire process.

 

 _Dale might retire,_ Daryl says as he carefully nudges the crib, watching as it moves smoothly and without the slight creaking Carol faintly remembers.

 

His statement takes her by surprise at first, but then she allows her mind to drift a little. Dale's wife had died last year, she recalls, and how old is he? She remembers him being old in her eyes even when she was still in school. _Really?_ she asks nonetheless, trailing her finger along the edge of the crib, pushing away reminiscing memories – the kind she wants to bottle up and drown in later, when Daryl has gone and she can have this moment for herself.

 

 _Yeah. Hasn't really been the same since his wife died._ She can imagine, sharp-edged memories of her father leaving rugged cuts in her mind. Again, she pushes them away, trying to focus on the unfamiliar anticipation in Daryl's voice. She actively seeks his gaze, a difficult task when he is still so focused on the crib, and raises her eyebrows to make him understand that she knows he has something more to say. He swallows. _He asked me ta take over._

 

The suppressed excitement that flickers in his eyes is contagious, no matter how much she wishes he could just show it without fear. _Daryl, that's amazing, how long have you known?_

 

His hand reaches up, thumb scratching along his chin, but Carol does not miss the pride that straightens his posture when he realizes how engaged she is in her joy for him. _Just a few days. Wasn't gonna bother ya with it, cause it ain't for sure an' all._ It's a ridiculous thought, but Carol is too engrossed to bother with it. Eventually, she will have to accept his ways – and that his shyness will always delay these moments between them. That is something she is willing to accept, as long as he always finds his way towards the truth.

 

 _Do you_ want _to take over for him?_ she asks, still smiling but mindful of the small possibility that this is not actually what he had planned, not matter how much pride he must feel in being considered to take over the business by a man to whom he owes so much. They have talked about Dale before, one evening in front of some mindless quiz show. With a somber voice and many long breaks, Daryl had revealed how much Dale's influence meant for him, how he steered him onto the right path, showed him respect and taught him to make a name for himself.

 

 _I guess_ , he replies with a shrug, clearly burned by the implications of his choice. _Always dreamed of havin' my own place, and I wouldn't have ta start from scratch._

 

There is passion hidden in his words, barely bound by the insecurities that he carries as a self-evident companion day by day.

 

Reaching her hand across the still swaying crib, empty and dusty but holding a promise that leaves no room for doubts anymore, she curls her fingers around his bared forearm, just above his wrist. _I'm so happy for you._

 

Not shying away from her touch, she can make out exactly how long he juggles with the idea of taking her hand into his, like he had done in the park that day, before dropping it in favor of a halfhearted smile. It is really just a twitch of the left corner of his mouth, a small disappointment when she softly retreats her hand. Then again, being able to read him this way is privilege enough, Carol muses, fishing the torn yellow canopy from the cardboard box that held the crib.

 

 _I ain't puttin' up_ that _._

 

 

 

 _I don't remember Andrea._ Daryl moves to stand on his tip toes, still not quite tall enough to reach the top row of the shelf they have just finished setting up. A little carelessly, he wipes the wet cloth over the white surface, groaning as something in his back makes an achy noise from the stretch.

 

Holding out the bucket of water, Carol chuckles. _She was valedictorian, how can you not remember her?_ The memory of graduation day is still fresh in Carol's mind, a day filled to the brim with hope and promise while tinged with the finest shade of melancholy. Vividly, she remembers her friend, proud and sure as she gave her speech. After a decade, she can no longer recall the words, but the imagery has stuck with her this whole time. To think that Daryl has forgotten resembles blasphemy.

 

 _Says the one who forgot all about our project_ , he shoots back, looking down at her with a smirk.

 

Inspired by seeing him so relaxed, Carol gives him her best pout. _Aww, did that hurt your feelings?_ He scoffs in return, sinking back down onto the soles of his feet, still stretching out his bared, muscles arms to wipe the shelf. Carol decides to go with it, making the most of his ease to probe a little further. _Did you have a crush on me?_ she ask teasingly and with a twinkle in her eyes. His movement stills, and then a blush creeps up the side of his neck and into his cheeks, the slightest shade of pink.

 

Along with it, Carol is overwhelmed by such a tidal wave of affection that she almost wishes they were no longer joking. She pushes that thought away immediately, tilting her head to the side with her grin plastered onto her lips.

 

 _Nah_ , Daryl huffs, throwing the cloth into the bucket, effectively sending dirty and soapy water splashing into the air. A few droplets land on her throat, but she ignores the annoying tickle. _Just thought ya were nice_. He hesitates, taking in the sight of Carol's furrowed brows. _Cause ya were nice t'me._ With a wave of his hand, he dismisses his own words, suddenly growing interest in a dirty fingerprint he left behind on the brand new white shelf. _Didn't have ta be._

 

The playfulness from just a few moments before has somehow been lost, and Carol struggles to grasp at it again and drag it back. Instead, she listens to her own voice soften as she speaks, still mindful not to grow too somber and scare him away. _More people should have been nice to you._

 

He nods, wiping away his fingerprint. _Don't know, ya just made me feel... better 'bout myself, I guess._

 

Carol understands how much it must have cost him to utter these words, and panics at the tension that seems to return to his shoulders, and the distance she spots spanning in his eyes. Opening up to her is still as much of a giant task for him as it is for her – and over the past few months she has come to realize that he is making much better progress and much wider steps than she can manage. She takes baby steps, day by day. Daryl, however, waits patiently by the sidelines for weeks until he sometimes, unannounced and unexpectedly, takes a plunge.

 

Each time, it either pushes them further together in this odd and unsteady journey, or it puts a little distance between them, just a fragment, yet enough to make them work hard at breaching it. Usually, once they begin to dwell on the matter at hand, it drags them away from each other.

 

Afraid that this will be another one of those moments, and unwilling to shed everything they have harvested today, Carol decides that they need to return to the safety of their earlier bickering.

 

 _So you did have a crush on me!_ she announces, forcing her features to form into a wide grin and convincing her heart to put a sparkle in her eyes.

 

Daryl does not respond for a second that stretches between them like old glue, causing her too worry that she stepped over a line and miscalculated. Then, to her relief, he looks at her through the mop of his hair with mischief in his blue eyes. _Stop._

 

 

 

 _Big no on Olaf_. Daryl chews noisily on his sandwich, scrolling through his phone without paying much attention. They are leaning against the armchair he has dragged up the stairs from the living room with more than a handful of creative curses and a sheen of sweat covering every exposed inch of skin.

 

Carol chuckles, using her thumb to dust away a crumble that has made itself comfortable at the corner of her mouth. Her head falls back against the cushioned seat of the chair, and she taps the heel of her foot against the paint-splashed newspapers that still cover the ground. The floor is a little chilly beneath them, and the light from the bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling is cold. The lamp she has bought is still packed in its box and sitting across the room from them.

 

Her fingers trace along the curve of her stomach, and she peeks over to Daryl's phone, a never ending list of baby names unfolding, the bright white light blinding her tired eyes. _The easiest thing would be to go through every Disney movie ever made and make a list, then let Sophia chose_ , she suggests, taking another bite of her sandwich. _But only the side kicks. She's not big on the princes._

 

The side of her foot falls lazily against Daryl's outstretched leg. For a brief second, he tenses by her side, but the moment passes almost instantly. It feels awkward to her, as well, touching him. Sometimes, when their hands brush or they stand too close, Carol needs to remind herself that they have done much more, and those memories burn bright and hot inside of her.

 

 _Ain't no clue about that_ , Daryl shrugs, drawing her attention back to the issue of finding a name for their child. They have somehow steered themselves into this mess, and perhaps it is yet another discussion they should delay until the last possible moment.

 

As Daryl throws his phone into his lap with an annoyed huff, Carol cranes her neck to present him her brightest grin. Raising her hand from her belly, she begins to count off with the aid of her fingers. _Well, there's Timon and Pumba, Sebastian, Pascal, Zazu, Sven, Meeko, Flounder, Abu, Mushu-_

 

 _Stop,_ Daryl interrupts her, his face a hilarious mixture of disbelief and utter exhaustion. Carol laughs, swatting at his shoulder, and it only adds to the laziness of the moment. This moment, the streetlights casting a yellow glow against the freshly painted walls, their legs touching, Sophia's old crib assembled, this is the sort of moment she wants to preserve and lock away. A golden moment of respite to return to in the future when weariness threatens to wash her away.

 

 _What if it's a girl?_ Daryl's eyes fall down towards her stomach, and it never ceases to amaze Carol how much wonder two eyes can hold. He flexes his fingers, she notices, green splotches of paint still covering the tanned skin.

 

With a soft smile, she takes his hand in hers, lifting it until it hovers against her stomach. _I don't see a way around Elsa._ She hesitates and keeps her fingers curled around his wrist. Without any barriers between them, and without the mindless passion and tunnel vision that lead to this moment, she struggles to allow him to touch her.

 

Physical contact, no matter how fleeting or chaste, accidental or well-meant, all inevitably reminds her of how easily it can morph into pain. Daryl seems to sense her inhibitions, not pushing to press his hand further, simply holding it there. In its own way, it is ten times more intimate than anything she recalls happening in her kitchen that day. Everything these last few days has balanced on the brink of intimacy, she finds, brushing her thumb across the back of his hand. In just a few days, they have sky rocketed forward, and suddenly, it terrifies her how quickly everything moves along.

 

 _Hell no_ , Daryl barks, laughing. _Ain't there any Disney princesses with less pretentious names?_

 

 _Like Aurora and Belle?_ His eyes widen a little, and then he is laughing again, a rough sound that is simultaneously precious and pure and Carol feels pride swelling inside of her for being able to cause this. _Do you have a name in mind? s_ he asks eventually, genuinely curious now. This is the first time they have breeches this topic, and she has not yet given it much thought. Daryl, however, who has bought almost every pregnancy book ever released and has, just last week, stuttered and stumbled before asking to join her for her next ultrasound appointment – he sure has a name picked out.

 

To her surprise, he shakes his head. The chipper woman on the radio talks through half the jingle, making early promises about a white Christmas, and Carol allows her eyes to flutter shut, still weighing the pressure of Daryl's hand in her own. When Daryl speaks up again after a minute, she is shocked to already be dragged from the early stages of sleep. _What was your mom's name?_

 

Carol is pretty certain that her earlier sob story about her late mother's lost necklace has brought this on, but she does not say anything about it – it is sweet of him to consider, and in a bold move, she finally does press his hand against her belly. A little smile tugs at his lips, a reward for her courage more than anything, and looks at her with curiosity.

 

 _Linda_ , Carol replies, tapping her foot against the side of Daryl’s leg along with the rhythm of the song now playing on the radio. _She was named after her grandmother, though, and she hated the woman._ It is a story for another day. Frankly, all Carol really wants is to sleep right now, right here. But she remembers something, a small flickering tidbit of information he has once allowed to slip. A passing remark about his mother that had been accompanied by a shimmer in his eyes. _Your mother?_ she asks carefully, not intending to tear open old wounds, but needing to grant him the same respect he has done.

 

His thumb draws a gentle line against her belly, a tender touch that should leave behind neither a fiery blaze nor a nervous flutter – yet it does both. Daryl pins his eyes on their hands crossed above her ratty shirt, ad his chuckle is hollow. _Shelly. That's a no._

 

It is a poor attempt at jokingly burying the matter, but Carol does not believe she can push him any further into the open today. She follows his lead and grows silent.

 

Surprisingly, it is Daryl who breaks it again after a few minutes, once more pulling her from the warm drowsiness of sleep. _It'll have ya last name, right?_

 

Carol shuffles a little when she realizes her head has lolled to the side, her face just a hand's width away from Daryl's neck. Clearing her throat, she recollects her thoughts. _I'd like that, yes._

 

He nods, staring right through her. _Better that way._

 

* * *

 

 

Carol swallows the last spoonful of her chocolate mousse, eyes closed and moaning softly in the back of her throat as the heavenly dessert melts on her tongue. Distantly, she can hear the clattering of spoons on plates, and the sound of Lori's voice as she recounts one or more hilariously embarrassing tale from their high school days. She has stopped being bothered by that once the rich taste of dark chocolate exploded on her tongue.

 

When her eyes drift open, she catches Daryl across the table, taking a large sip of red wine, listening intently to Lori's story. He has been surprisingly... social all evening, crawling out of his shell for her sake. Earlier, when he picked her up he'd been so obviously nervous that Carol considered canceling all together. She was feeling a little under the weather all day anyway, so the prospect of spending the entire evening with a trembling Daryl and the suspicious but eager-to-please-her Grimes, that seemed less and less inviting with each passing second.

 

He has surprised them all, bringing nice wine and doing his utmost best to maintain the conversation. In his case, that meant mostly answering questions in a satisfying manner that gives away nothing too personal, complimenting Lori's cooking, and nodding every now and then.

 

She does not mind, far from it. After all, he has adapted and re-shaped his life so much already to make it more suitable for their situation, what monster would she be to ask him to change his personality? She likes him the way he his, all sullen and quiet with a little anger always brooding beneath the gruff surface. A sweet and tender, shy man who tries harder to appear different than to accept his demons.

 

Despite her headache and the woozy sensation in her stomach, Carol has enjoyed the evening so far, the easy conversation and her friends' apparent effort to make right by their lack of support lately.

 

 _Daryl, want to go out for a smoke?_ Rick asks from his seat at the head of the table, reaching across the dark mahogany top to help Lori collect the empty dessert bowls.

 

Licking her spoon one last time for good measure, Carol feels her eyebrows furrowing. _Since when do you smoke, Rick?_

 

She does not miss Lori’s quick smirk as her friend moves to stand, balancing the bowls in the palms of her hands. Rick and her share a quick look, one that could span novels and the entirety of time and space, the type of look that only people can share who have been each others life for too long, who know each and every mystery. When there is nothing more to hide, there very often is nothing left to say.

 

 _I don't_ , Rick shrugs, and Daryl shrinks a little under his stare. _Just thought we could talk._

 

Daryl puts down his wine glass, the fragile mask of confidence he has put on slowly beginning to crumble. He does not know Rick, and he is working for the police. With his family's reputation constantly weighing him down, Carol can feel the self-doubts beginning to spin their webs around him, chaining him to his chair.

 

 _Sure_ , he finally replies, handing Lori his empty bowl. His chair screeches when he pushes it back, nervously rubbing his hands across his thighs. Not for the first time tonight, Carol trails her eyes down the smooth white fabric of his shirt. There is nagging feeling in the back of her head that he has bought this specifically for tonight. It is a thought that stirs affection and guilt in equal measure. She does not want him to twist and shape into somebody different. And yet, she longs for him to fit into her life as seamlessly as possible. _I ain't smokin', though. I quit._

 

Briefly, their eyes meet. Rick mutters something unintelligible, but Carol pays him no mind. Instead, her mind begins to reel, and tears prickle in her eyes. She comes up empty trying to remember the last time she has seen Daryl smoke, or even the last time she has smelled the nicotine on him. Of course, she has noticed this before. But the revelation hat he quit the habit entirely comes as unexpected as the nod he throws at her now.

 

He stopped for her. Maybe not even for the baby, or her health. Lingering thoughts of her own father's passing creep through her head and remain there, even as Rick leads Daryl through the back door and onto the porch into the moonlight.

 

A single tear escapes her eyes, the bare essence of her affection and gratefulness. She wipes it away before Lori can notice, but still she feels caught, suddenly overwhelmed and speechless.

 

 

 

 _Don't look at me like that_ , Lori groans, gracelessly dumping the dirty dishes into the sink. She looks pretty in her brown dress, her hair pulled up and her earrings sparkling. But beneath it all, the mascara and the blush and the silk, it has become harder and harder for her to hide away the dullness in her eyes and the effort behind each smile.

 

It is part of why Carol easily surrenders and drops the raised eyebrows. Frankly, she is too tired to put up much of a fight, and after all these weeks, she has stopped to believe that her friends should be punished for worrying about her safety and happiness. She sighs instead, rubbing her tired eyes. _What do you think?_

 

She is genuinely curious about her friend's opinion now, always having valued it above anyone else's. _He's nice_ , Lori replies, and despite the generic wording, there is a truth and comfort in her words that Carol knows is impossible to fake. It makes her rest more easily, less tormented by all the little pieces falling into place.

 

 _See? I told you he's trying_ , she quips without blaming Lori. Her fingers pick at some leftover cheese on the large porcelain plate, the floral adornments slowly fading from frequent use.

 

 _I never said he wasn't_. Lori sounds a little sharper now, her voice on the edge of something, and when Carol looks up, her friend has straightened her shoulders, arms crossed defiantly. Still, her eyes are soft, and an easy smile dances along the curve of her lips.

 

_You didn't agree with me, either, though._

 

 _I was worried about you, Carol_ , Lori explains, reaching across to rest a slender hand on her shoulder. _But he seems like..._ In all the years they have known each other, Carol can only recall a handful of times when words have failed them. Lori is lost in her thoughts for a moment, dropping her hand back to her side. Then, something lightens up her face, and she speaks up with a clearer voice, loud and convinced. _I'm not that worried anymore._

 

Carol does not miss the slight safety net that Lori has strung between her words, but she cherishes it instead of scolding her for it. _Good._ She pinches a juicy green grape between her fingers, rolling it there briefly before popping it into her mouth. _He was really nervous, you know?_ she reveals, keeping her voice down.

 

They both looks over towards the living room, candle light flickering on the walls. The back door is open, revealing the black of the night. Neither of them can hear or see the two men outside, but something about them out there together feels overwhelmingly progressive. _Well, he doesn't have to be nervous anymore_ , Lori reassures her quietly, and this time, the smile she gives her is as truthful as she has ever seen. It reminds Carol of days long gone, summers spend by the lake, or in clothing store's changing rooms trying on ball gowns and swimsuits alike.

 

 _How are you?_ she asks, reaching for another grape. Lori visibly flinches at the question, sending shivers of fear through Carol's body.

 

 _I'm fine_. The answer comes too quickly and too briskly, a lie if ever there was one. This is no longer the Lori she used to be. She turns to open the dishwasher, eager for something to do to distract herself, to end this conversation. Carol is reminded harshly of herself, spending hours cleaning or baking and cooking, the only outlets for her sadness and the smallest if not most effective distraction from her pain.

 

 _No_ , she says sharply, shaking her head. Her hand grasp determinedly around Lori's arm, and that stops her friend's movements, petrifying her. _Something's up._

 

 

 

For someone who has never imagined becoming a father, owning a house of his own and calling somebody his wife, Daryl finds it surprisingly easy to imagine, standing right here on the dimly lit back porch of the Grimes' house.

 

Rick has been quiet since leading him out here, standing with his hands pressed into his hips by his side. Daryl is nervous, he'd be a dam fool to deny it, and he has been all night. But Carol had been so eager about him meeting her friends, and he finds that there is very little he can deny her.

 

The air is cold, a chill creeping across the lawn, leaving behind a thin layer of crusty ice. In front of their mouths, small clouds form and disperse, over and over. They are two strangers. To be fair, Rick seems like a decent guy, and has not given him a hard time tonight.

 

But the only thing they have in common weighs down on him. Because the only thing that connects Daryl and Rick, is Merle. Merle in handcuffs. Rick Grimes and Shane Walsh knocking on his door. Telling him his bastard of an old man was finally gone. Looking at him so differently from how Rick has looked at him all evening. Then, he had eyed him with caution and disdain – he was just anther redneck ass back then. It's different now. But maybe not for the right reasons.

 

 _Are you nervous?_ Rick's question breaks the silence like cracking glass. They don't look at each other, both staring ahead into the night with their own thoughts and their own worries. _About becoming a father._

 

This is not the type of conversation Daryl needs to have with Rick Grimes out of all people. He is scared like shit, but he will not even admit that to Carol who handles him with fluffy gloves and kind smiles. _Yeah_ , he mutters against his will. Rick Grimes is a dad, after all. And he has to believe that he is at least a decent one.

 

 _It's terrifying. But it's worth it._ There is a swing in the back yard, Daryl notices, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. The moonlight is weak behind thick clouds. To be honest, he is not sure if anything can ever be worth this tedious amount of sleepless nights and heart palpitations, but he keeps that thought locked away. Has his own father ever considered him and Merle worth anything?

 

 _Don't know much 'bout good fathers_ , he admits, sounding angrier than he wants to be. But it always comes back, all the rage he suppressed for so long, could not unleash. In a way, Merle robbed him of that when he switched off the old man's light. Took away whatever chance at redemption and atonement there was.

 

Rick looks to him then, and from his peripheral, Daryl can clearly see how upset by the words the man is. _Just be there._ A long pause stretches between them, and Daryl tucks his hands beneath his arm pits, grunting in annoyance at the tight fit of the shirt he bought earlier today. _Really be there._ Rick sounds distant, and it does not take a psychic to detect the tinge of regret in his voice. Even Daryl understands that this conversation is no longer just about him.

 

The next words burn on his tongue for a while, and he hesitates to speak them. For one, he hates pity. And he also understands they might not come across the right way. Words have never been Daryl's strongest suit and he does not want to ruin things for Carol because he can not find the right thing to say. _Not used ta people wantin' me 'round._ They are not meant to be accusing. Perhaps Rick knows that and understands it, perhaps he feels the jab of them and chooses to ignore it. One way or the other, he speaks his next words with something akin to surprise in his voice.

 

 _Carol does._ Daryl finally turns to look at the man, clean shaven and with a pale blue buttoned up shirt. It looks right on him, fitting. And still, there is something else Daryl can not quite name, a shadow that seems to loom. Rick smiles just barely, enough to make Daryl both more at ease with this conversation and more nervous about standing here in the first place. _She cares about you, I've known her for a long time._ Those are not the words he expected to hear, and his heart betrays him by picking up speed. He is a fool for caring about it that much, for allowing promises and hope to bloom inside of him. Rick's next words freeze the blood in his veins. _Did she tell you what happened with Ed?_

 

The anger that rushes through him is not unlike the kind that fills him at the slightest mention of his father. The subject of her marriage is one that he and Carol have not yet breached. Every now and then, she allows him small glimpses behind the wall she has erected around it, hiding it all away so deeply where he can not reach. He tries, knowing fully well how hard she struggles to _get_ him, understand him and accept him. To do the same for her seems logical and only fair, but it is a losing battle – she will not let him win.

 

 _Nah, but I know bastards like him_ , he grunts through gritted teeth, beginning to feel the early winter cold clawing its way through his shirt. _She ain't gotta tell me._

 

Both men understand exactly who they are talking about in this moment, but it goes without saying that the matter is dropped instantly. Old demons and long shed baggage have no more place here on this porch on this very night.

 

 _She's been through a lot, and this can't be easy on her_ , Rick continues, taking a step froward towards the porch steps. His hand slips from his hip and curls around the railing. Quietly, he stands there for a minute, Daryl watching him intently as he stares into the night. _Just don't make it harder._ There is a trace of a threat weaved into his words, but Daryl only nods curtly. After all, the man has a reason to be worried, to mistrust him. Daryl does not trust him, either.

 

But then he turns, and suddenly his hand is on Daryl’s shoulder. Briefly, pressing down in a manner unfamiliar and uncharted for Daryl before moving away. _You being here, that's everything to her._

 

 

 

 _That wasn't all that bad, was it?_ Daryl is not sure if Carol really meant that as a question when he shuts the door of his truck, the sound noisy and sharp in the silence. He waits for Carol to catch up with him, her hands buried in the pockets of her coat.

 

 _Nah_ , he mutters with a smirk, feeling eerily cheerful when he spots the strong blush on her cheeks from the cold. She looks tired, and has done all night. Quietly, they walk up the gravel driveway towards her front door, the light above it flickering to life when they get close enough.

 

Carol eventually stops, fumbling through her bag for her keys. _Thank you for doing this_. He almost misses the words, staring at the back of her head where her short auburn hair is curling, Rick's earlier words still predominant in his brain. But then she turns to look up at him, all blue eyes and soft smile, and his brain shuts down. _It means a lot to me._

 

He smirks, suddenly feeling insecure about standing so close to her in his ridiculous shirt and with his hair combed, while she looks so effortlessly beautiful. _Ya look nice._ His eyes widen as soon as the words tumble from his lips in a pathetic mumble.

 

Carol, however, does not seem as upset by his compliment as he is. _So do you_ , she counters, making a show out of scanning him from head to toe. He snorts out of laugh, but is unable to fool himself into taking this lightly. Then, to his shock, she leans in and up on her toes. _Good night_ , she whispers, so close that he can feel the damp warmth of her breath on his skin. And damn, if that does not open floodgates and bring back all sorts of memories he is fighting so hard to contain.

 

His first instinct when her lips land on his cheek is to jerk his head away. But she feels warm and soft, and barely misses the corner of his mouth. Even if he really wanted to, he never could move away. She smells like winter, and nervously, his arms lift, hands hovering just above her upper arms before she pulls away again.

 

 _Night_ , he says, nearly rolling his eyes at his own dullness. But the smile lingers on Carol's face, even when she slips through her front door and out of his side.

 

He stands there for a minute, listening to Carol talking to the baby sitter inside, before he gathers the motivation to walk away.

 

 

 _Fuck_ , he mutters when the engine roars to life, suddenly realizing just how big of a mess he has gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting these chapters out weekly is starting to drain me (then again, I think I barely missed coming down with the flu this week, so that might explain it). But I have a goal and I intend to keep working towards that.
> 
> I hope this makes up for some of the angst that found its way into the last chapters.


	7. week twenty eight.

**week twenty eight.**

 

 _So, it's Christmas soon._ Daryl looks up at Carol's words, probably with a dumbfounded expression on his face – but that is entirely her fault for pointing out such a blatantly stupid thing when he is currently earning needle pricks all over his arms putting up her goddamned Christmas tree.

 

 _No shit_ , he scoffs, momentarily distracted by the blush on her cheeks, a small remnant from their trip to the woods. Somewhere upstairs, he can hear Sophia rummaging through boxes, apparently successful in her hunt for tree ornaments. She'd been so excited earlier, jumping up and down in the snow, perched on his back for a piggy back ride trough the naked tree lines, carefully picking the perfect Christmas tree.

 

 _Any plans?_ Carol asks, reaching over to steady the tree as he sinks it into the stand. Daryl can feel her lingering gaze on him, turning to confirm that she is waiting for an answer, bottom lip briefly slipping in between her teeth. Her hand slips down towards her stomach, the swell of it disfiguring the polka dot print on her knitted sweater. It looks a little ridiculous, if he's being honest. But only a little. In truth, the sight of her belly stirs warmth inside him each time, a sort of nervous and anticipating flutter, and on occasion even the slightest trace of pride.

 

 _What I always do, I guess_ , he replies with a shrug, a little intimidated by whatever lingers on Carol's tongue. He notes how she shifts her weight, a habit she has picked up lately. He remembers reading about the center of balance shifting in the later months of pregnancy, and his arms suddenly tense, ready to bolt out and catch her should she sway too far to the side.

 

 _And what's that?_ Her eyes sparkle a little, but he can see her face falling – she looks disappointed. There is a quiet thud upstairs that causes Carol to jump, and both their eyes drift towards the ceiling.

 

 _Huntin'_. The word is spoken quietly. It is a sad reply, even he knows that. He's never cared about any of the holidays, does not give shit about fairy lights and Santa Claus. Despite all that, spending the holidays all alone in the frozen woods with nothing but his crossbow to keep him company, even Daryl can see the misery in that.

 

Carol's eyes widen a little, only increasing the intriguing shade of blue, crisp as the sky. _In the winter?_

 

 _Yeah._ He looks down at his socked feet, nudging his toes against the carpet. _Usually spend a couple days in the woods._ What he does not give away, what he knows she will read between the lines anyway, is that he flees into the comfort of the woods to get away from it all. From the bright lights and the happy families and the smell of cinnamon and gingerbread and roasted meat. Out there, none of that exists. For all he knows, the world might have ended, humanity wiped away from the face of the Earth.

 

 _All alone?_ In the timid tone of her question, he finds confirmation that she understands. He has stopped pretending in front of her long ago. And even if he can not bring himself to open up entirely and bare his wounds for her to try and tend to, he feels the ease of freedom when she is around. Not hiding is a relief he has not felt in years.

 

 _Took Axel one year,_ he tries in a weak attempt to take the pitiful expression off her face. Scratching his chin, he finds that he failed. _Ain't ever doin' that again._

 

That evokes a small laughter, and the smirk that stretches her lips sends shivers down his spine. _Sounds like a story worth telling_ , she teases, winking at him with long lashes.

 

 _Stop._ It has become a game between them, the playfulness, the teasing. Some days, the lines blur, though, and those are the days he wants to cross the distance they keep, and thank her for everything she has done for him. Without realizing it, or even setting out to do it, she has dragged him out of the bleakness of isolation and has turned his life upside down. She brought the light back, and with each day, she glows brighter.

 

Jiggling on the stairs announces Sophia's impending return. Her steps, however, are slow, clearly weighed down. Carol suddenly takes a step closer to him, a shy sort of hesitation about her. _Well, I was wondering if maybe you'd like to spend Christmas here?_ He swallows, unable to look away. _With Sophia and me?_

 

 _Really?_ He did not intend for the word to come out at all, and definitely not as such a pathetically hoarse murmur. Carol, however, smiles, never in the slightest stirred by his foolishness. Most days, he does not understand why she keeps him around in the first place, when he has nothing to offer her. But until she pushes him away, he will not stray. The days of guilt have long passed.

 

No. He is here because he wants to be, because the baby in her belly is his son or daughter, will call him _daddy_ one day. Because sometimes, when he mutters stupid things, Carol smiles or laughs. Because Sophia beams when he resigns to his fate and watches another pointless movie with her or helps her carry trinkets to the tree house he built in the backyard. Because some days, the lines blur so much that he nearly chokes on everything he tries not to feel. But then Carol does stupid things like hug him goodbye, or pull up her shirt and press his trembling hand against her soft skin to feel the flutter of their child moving, or press a kiss to his cheek. That is why he is still here, why he knows nothing but Carol herself will ever make him leave. For the first time in his life, Daryl feels like he might finally belong.

 

 _Yeah. I just..._ Carol is the one to look down now, fingertips dancing tenderly along the swell of her belly. _Next year, when the baby's here... I would love if we could have Christmas dinners. Together._ When she looks up again, the intensity of hope that beams from her face nearly knocks the wind out of him. _As a family._

 

On its own accord, his hand lifts across the distance, hovering just an inch away from her own, calloused fingertips brushing along a smooth palm, warm and-

 

 _Found it all, Mommy!_ Sophia chirps as she bursts into the living room, accompanied by the jiggle and clattering of delicate ornaments. _Even the frosted snowmen!_

 

* * *

 

His heart stutters a little in his chest.

 

 _Are you asking me on a date?_ It looks comical, Carol standing there perched on her tip toes, arms stretched above her head, shoving a striped cardboard box on the top shelf, frozen in mid movement. She looks slightly taken aback, but not in the least surprised, Daryl notes. That, in turn, hardly surprises Daryl. After all, they have been dancing around this for weeks, maybe months. Maybe ever since that early summer afternoon that is still so fresh in his mind. After all, the baby whose clothes he is currently folding into drawers did not result from nothing.

 

He knows next to nothing about relationships, or families, hell, not even true friendships. So he'd never claim to truly understand whatever it is that binds them together despite the odds. He has a fleeting suspicion, one he is too afraid to admit. But there is no denying how pretty Carol looks, and how soothing her voice sounds, or how flushed he feels when she touches him. Especially, there is no denying the emptiness of his life when he is not spending his time with her and Sophia. An emptiness he was well aware of before. But now, it is beginning to bother him. Now that he's had a taste of a different life.

 

 _Guess._ He shrugs, a pale cream colored onesie dangling from his large hand. Not for the first time, he wishes he could be more eloquent. Cursing silently, he has to admit that even Axel would have found a smoother way to ask her out.

 

Carol sighs, and the sound evokes panic inside him. Is he really that big a fool? Has he read her all wrong?

 

She sinks back onto her bare feet, crossing her arms above the swell of her belly. It is not a defensive move, but a protective one. He has learned to spot the difference long ago. Y _ou know you don't have to do that, right?_ His forehead furrows in confusion, and Daryl is suddenly glad for the onesie in his hand to keep his fingers occupied.

 

He expected a no, maybe a small speech that would equally attempt to soften the blow and tear him apart. Perfect reasoning for why they should not move things between them in a different direction. Yes. He expected her to tell him they should not try to fix what ain't broken. A small part of him even dared to hope for a yes, but that seems out of reach and long forgotten now. What he did not expect is the utter guilt and frustration plainly evident on Carol's fave, erasing the dewy glow and vivid joy. Like she is blaming herself.

 

 _That's not why I told you about the baby._ Her eyes seek out his despite the tension between them. In this moment, he longs to be teasingly told off, drown in embarrassment for a few days and then pick their relationship back up where he dented it. Not this, not Carol struggling for words and unable to understand that he is not doing any if this out of guilt. _Not because I wanted you to feel like you have to marry me._

 

That is beyond of what he can bear. _Ain't proposing, woman._ There is a desperate edge to his voice, stemming from the fear of having ruined them with his stupid stuttered suggestion. It would be just like him to hope too much and allow it to cloud his judgment and then shatter the one good thing in his life. The best thing he has ever had. _Just..._ He drops the onesie onto the changing table, still bare and plain. The words tickle his lips, tongue darting out to wet them. Dry and chapped. _I like ya_ , he finally mutters under his breath, fingers curling into fists by his sides.

 

Silence follows. It is heavy, dragging so thickly between then that he might cut it in half. Then, quietly, footsteps fall and approach. Daryl keeps his eyes pinned to the ground, not quite strong enough to face the full extend of the blow he will surely receive.

 

And then, instead of walking away, two bare feet enter his field of vision, coming to a stop just a few inches away from the tip of his toes. Looking up, Carol is right there. All blue eyes, long lashes, scattered freckles, some red curls gone astray, soft lips ( _God, how soft they'd been_ ) curled into the faintest of smiles.

 

 _I like you, too._ Her whisper dampens his face, and when her cool palm cups his rough cheek and the swell of their baby growing inside of her just barely brushes against his own stomach, a veil of absolute calm drapes around them.

 

Her fingertips drift along the rise of his cheekbone, her thumb daringly teasing the corner of his mouth. She is so close, the smell of her shampoo recreating spring in the midst of winter. Even if all his blood rushes to where she touches him, causing his skin to gleam like heated iron, he does not care right now. All that matters is that Carol looks nothing like she did before. Her frustration is wiped away and in her smile he traces the sweetly curious excitement she can not contain.

 

He does not need to make an even bigger fool of himself and ask. This is the _yes_ he was daring to hope for.

 

* * *

 

 

Carol has no idea how or why they ended up like this. Again.

 

She still remembers her own bubbly laughter as she scrambled out of her car, Daryl's hand on her elbow keeping her steady. The memory of leading Daryl into her dimly-lit house is still distinct, as is the jiggle of his bike's keys where he dropped them onto the kitchen counter next to his helmet before they left earlier in the evening. One moment, she was paying the babysitter and telling her goodnight, closing the front door behind the girl, and the next Daryl stood there in the middle of the dark hallway, lingering, words he could not speak clearly on the tip of his tongue.

 

She remembers telling him what a nice time she had, his shy smile and the rush of affection it stirred. Then all of a sudden she was right in front of him and her lips were pressed against his – eager and shy at the same time, hands gripping her hips - and her fingers curled into the collar of his shirt, and everything blurred.

 

Now, they are back to where all of this started many months ago. Except instead of bare thighs pressing into the edge of her kitchen table with her dress bunched around her waist and Daryl's hand groping her breast through the fabric, she is naked from head to toe, her clothes tossed into different corners of her bedroom, the mattress soft beneath her.

 

It is nothing like last time.

 

 

Somehow, he is still mostly dressed, shoes and socks kicked off somewhere by the door, the first few buttons of his black shirt undone, exposing only a glimpse at his chest. The yellow glow of her bedside lamp reflects in his dark eyes, and his hair is standing in all directions, untamed and wild from where her fingers have sifted through the silky soft strands.

 

Carol wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, feeling them swollen from his kisses, the faint taste of chilli burning ever so slightly on the winter dry skin.

 

Calloused palms tenderly run up her shins, stopping to part her bended knees. There is clear intent in the movement, and yet it feels soft, like an invitation. With labored breaths and a nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach, Carol allows her legs to fall open just slightly. In a strange way, she feels more exposed and vulnerable now than she ever did when she was with Ed. With Daryl, it suddenly matters what he thinks and feels and wants.

 

His hand begin their decent, sliding along the insides of her thighs, enough pressure to set fire to her veins and yet tender enough for a tickle to make her squirm. The sound of fabric against sheets fills the air as he moves from his kneeling position to lie down on his stomach between her legs. Suddenly, all the air is drained from Carol's lungs, and she closes her legs as if by instinct, trapping his hands.

 

 _You don't have to_ , she presses out, struggling for words. Rising up on her elbows, she meets his gaze, and there is no doubt or hesitation in Daryl's eyes. Carefully, he circles his fingers against her inner thigh, restricted by the grip of her legs. But he is so close, _so_ very close, and against her better judgment Carol eases her hold, allowing him more room.

 

In truth, she is not worried in the least that he might not actually want to do this - that he acts out of feeling like he owes her or even with the expectation of being repaid the favor. No. Carol is not sure if she actually _wants_ him to do this, if she is ready to be this exposed.

 

 _Want me ta stop?_ He sounds so very nervous, and in his eyes a flicker of doubt appears. Carol realizes how much she does not want to see that, that the last thing she can bear right now is for Daryl to cringe away and assume she does not want him. Because she does, with every burning fiber of her being. God, she wants him. But this, this is so different from what she remembers. No barriers, nothing to hide herself behind.

 

One word and he'd stop, she knows. She trusts him, more in this moment than she has in all the months that have passed, and it's an unexpected conclusion. Now, vulnerable and scared, she finally feels her chest bursting open, her heart unraveling and trust throbbing in her veins.

 

His lips press against the side of her left knee, his nose nudging against her knee cap. The small gesture send shivers down her spine, goose bumps raising from her wrists up to her shoulders in a tingly avalanche.

 

Slowly, awaiting her to end this, Daryl smooths his hand further down her thighs – ever so slowly, so slowly that Carol feels her finger curling into her sheets desperately. Her body betrays her when she arches her back and cranes into his touch, and when she can feel the stretch of his smile against the soft skin behind her knee, she gives in.

 

His fingers brush over her, just barely, crazing the warmth he finds. Her heart picks up speed at the jolt of pleasure that shoots up her spine and tugs deep in her belly, head falling back down onto her pillow when Daryl's grunt is muffled against the soft skin of her thigh.

 

Gripping the sheets tighter, needing to hold on to something before her body melts away, she looks down. It is awkward for all of three seconds, Daryl completely hidden behind the swell of her stomach. But then his lips find her, brushing over sensitive skin, and the moan that rips from Carol's throat drowns out all the concerned and fearful voices in her head.

 

 _Daryl_ , she sighs as his tongue darts out to explore, both overeager and a little too shy at the same time. His hum against her drives her mad, and she has to remind herself that Sophia is asleep just down the hall when he begins to _suck_ , his hands pressed deftly into her thighs to keep her from choking him.

 

She sinks her teeth into the soft skin of her palm, eyes squeezed shut, white lights flickering like stars in the darkness. This is so very wrong; her daughter just two rooms down and the endless pile of unsolved business that they have amassed between them. Despite it all, it feels so far from wrong. And in truth, kissing him that afternoon in her kitchen and giving in to all that simple act had to offer – that never felt wrong, not even in hindsight. She has never regretted her blind decision.

 

His hands move up from her thighs as he drags his lips around the edge of her with infuriating tenderness, his palms and fingertips dragging up the swell of her belly before finding her breasts. With a muffled groan, Carol arches into his touch, fingers flickering against her sensitive skin. The faint ache in her lower back is pushed to the most distant corner of her mind. All she can really feel and pay attention to is the coil tightening in the pit of her stomach, winding like a clock.

 

He palms the weight, his tongue tracing her as if he is trying to memorize it all, draw a map to her very core. It's all too much to bear, and Carol can not bring herself to open her eyes. She is drowning in it. In the warmth of Daryl's tongue inside her, the softness of his lips against her, the pressure of his fingers pinching and flickering, the vibration of her own name when he murmurs it into her swollen skin.

 

With a muffled groan, Carol reaches down, blindly fumbling until she grasps one of his hands. Immediately, he responds, curling their fingers and dropping their joined hands onto the sheets. Holding on to him, her other hand still the only barrier between the quiet room and the sounds threatening to burst from her lungs, she feels so close – it's palpable now, and in the darkness behind her closed eyes, Carol can almost see herself reaching for it.

 

But she is not quite ready to let go, can not let herself fall over the edge. As her breathing turns more and more labored, she starts to fear what will happen after. After the tension that is keeping her as tightly bound as a bow will snap and release – what happens then? When her mind clears.

 

Daryl seems to sense her hesitation, her inability to let herself be consumed by the moment. Against the back of her hand, his thumb draws soothing circles – gentle and tender compared to the fire he is beginning to stir with his mouth, a blaze that she knows she will not be able to resist for much longer. Squeezing his fingers like a lifeline, she murmurs his name again, almost as if it is the only word her lips and tongue still remember to form.

 

The hoarse sound of his name draws a deep groan from Daryl's chest, and Carol can feel him shifting against the mattress. Such a small movement, yet it makes her feel powerful, her chest flaring with pride.

 

 _I got ya_ , Daryl mutters then, his lips forming the words against her, his fingers folding even closer into hers, and that proves too much to fight. White hot heat shoots through her, her body arching almost painfully off the bed. The deep tension eases, her skin raw, and she can not muffle the moan that rips from her throat. For those small moments, though, it hardly matters to her. Instead, she feels dissociated from her mind, only her body existing for a fleeting moment of pure bliss. Her mind, wherever it has disappeared to, is numb and wiped clean – there is no room on the blank canvas for doubts.

 

Panting, Carol eventually feels the world returning. The rapid fire beating of her heart, the tickling sensation of sweat drying on her skin, the lead-like feeling of her legs, and the nearly painful jolt when Daryl leaves one final kiss, before trailing his lips along her thighs and up her stomach. Her back sinks back down onto the mattress, hips relaxing against the softness, and finally, she allows her eyes to flutter open.

 

The light in the room is dim, and it requires a moment for her eyes to adjust. Through her labored breaths, Carol finds Daryl's eyes fixed on her as he moves back onto his knees between her quivering legs.

 

The loss when his hands slips from her own is immediate, and she raises her hand and holds on for as long as possible until his fingers finally, ever so slowly, slip from her own. He looks as flushed as Carol feels, but in his eyes, something wavers. Swallowing deftly, Carol recognizes it. He looks uncertain. His already meager confidence crumbles in front of her like ancient brick walls, and in his hesitation, Carol finds her own determination.

 

She wants this, no matter if it is wrong or right. No matter the consequences. Perhaps it's naive, she wonders as she lift ups on her elbows once more, to tie herself to the flicker of hope that they will get through this. But the flicker swells and grows, and the smile that curls her lips is all the nudging Daryl needs. Still, she nods softly, lips pursing, heart picking up speed once more.

 

They have come so far, even in the shadows of their pasts and all the baggage they have carried alone for so long. This is a mere pebble along the way, and even if it stirs trouble, how can it be any more than a small, clumsy stumble on their way?

 

How many chances has she granted him to run away? He has not taken a single one. Carol ponders on the thought as Daryl reaches behind himself to pull his shirt over his head, his already wild hair a downright mess once he reappears. It's sweet, the way he runs his fingers through the strands, scratching the back of his neck. Something has shifted, though. Carol notes the way his shoulders tense, chin pointing towards his chest, hiding his face from her view.

 

Waiting for the moment to pass, she reaches out as far as she can, struggling to keep her balance on just one elbow. Her fingertips brush over his bare stomach, down the fine line of hair until she feels the rough leather of his belt. Fire stirs inside her veins once more when he shudders under her gentle touch, edging forward, closer to her.

 

She unbuckles the belt carefully, popping open the button of his jeans impatiently, suddenly bothered by her own measured movements. Still, she draws down his zipper slowly, listening to the scratching sound of it, her hand brushing against Daryl's arousal on her way down. The soft groan it draws from him is the most rewarding of sounds, sending small prickles of excitement through her system.

 

With his pants undone, Carol relishes in the space it provides her. Quickly, she slips her hands beneath the fabric, curling her fingers around the base of him. Daryl jerks his hips forward in response, reaching down to tug her hand away almost instantly. Softly, he shakes his head at her, dropping her hand.

 

But before Carol can feel the sting of rejection, he moves off the bed, back onto his feet. Swallowing, he pushes down his pants and briefs, stepping out of them and abandoning them right there by the end of her bed.

 

For the very first time, Carol takes in the sight of him. The broad span of his shoulders, a tattoo just above his heart, the flat plane of his stomach, the rises and falls of his hips, strong thighs. It is a strange thought to carry his child inside of her and yet only now be given the chance to really _see_ him. Not for the first time, Carol feels the voids that still lingers between them, and mourns all she has not been allowed to learn about him.

 

Clearly uncomfortable under her unashamed and penetrating gaze, Daryl moves back onto the bed, quickly and a little clumsily crawling on top of her. His length brushes against the inside of her thigh as he pulls himself up, hands by the sides of her head, and it causes both of them to shiver. With a muffled groan, Daryl lingers, maintaining the contact for a moment longer before he shifts, settling himself in the cradle of her thighs.

 

There is an awkward distance between them due to the rise of her stomach, and even as Daryl leans down to capture her lips in a kiss, she can tell that he is trying not to crush her. Affection swells inside of her, not in small part due to the soft, tender brush of his lips against her own. It does not match the hunger inside of her. Instead, it calms her down, and with a sigh that is drowned by Daryl’s lips, Carol curls her arms around him, allowing herself to fall back against her bed.

 

Almost instantly, Daryl freezes above her. And within the breadth of a second, Carol understands why. Not just why he suddenly tenses. But she understand _everything_.

 

Beneath her fingers, she feels smooth and ragged ridges of raised skin that cross over the expanse of his back. She does not need to see to know what she is touching, knowing all too well the unique texture of scars.

 

It is hardly a surprise, although Daryl has never outright admitted her suspicions – just like she is convinced that he understands her own past just as well, without the necessity of verbal confirmation.

 

His lips pull away from hers, and for a second, Carol fears that the moment has died. When he only moves back an inch, his breath still warm against her skin, though, her fear fades. There is trust in his blue eyes, clouded by pain and shame. Softly, reassuringly, Carol follows the line of a scar with a tender fingertip, hoping to – if only for a brief moment – wipe away the cruel memories tied to it.

 

He can not let her, yet, slowly reaching up to gently pry away her hand. His fingers curl into hers again, resting them against the sheets as his lips initiate another kiss, just as tender, just as fleeting. Then, whispering her name in soft syllables, he trails his lips along her jawline and down her throat, nudging his nose against her pulse point, tongue darting out to flicker against the spot behind her ear.

 

Beneath him, Carol squirms, allowing a raspy moan to break free. She can feel him against her wetness, the slide of him stirring the embers in her veins. With just enough force to urge him on, she squeezes his fingers.

 

Daryl smiles against the side of her throat, before gently moving away from her, just enough to maneuver. His hands glide beneath her shoulders, abandoning her open palm, and then he turns over onto his back in one smooth movement.

 

Carol catches on quickly, bracing herself with splayed hands on his chest as her thighs bracket his hips. Daryl groans and bucks up into her when her warmth slides across his stomach, and the brush of his skin against hers has her grinding down against him with his name a broken chant on her lips.

 

Beneath the star of her hand she can feel his heart thumping in the same rhythm as her own. With trembling fingers, she reaches between them, repositioning her hips, finding him hard and ready. Her fingers curling around him quickly arouses the same response as before, a jerk of his hips and a groan that vibrates in his chest. Only this time, Daryl does not move to tug her hand away.

 

His own hand comes up to cup her cheek, warm and calloused but oh so gentle, the other finding a grip against her hip, finding purchase there as Carol begins to slowly sink down onto him.

 

Her name carries on a sigh when she has taken him in all the way, and she can not help the quivering of the muscles in her thighs, or the way her fingertips press more deftly into his chest.

 

Initially, she is uncertain what do to now that she is in charge, Daryl looking up at her with awe and concentration, sweat pearling in beads over his brows. She sets a slow pace, rises and falls lazily, not wanting this to be like the last time. Then, it had been quick and hurried despite its awkwardly misplaced and unreadable tenderness. Efficient, but fleeting. No. This, she wants to last. Instead of brazen and, truthfully, a little dirty, she feels cherished now. Worshiped as he slides his thumb across her lips, trails his fingers down her neck. She cranes her head back to allow him more room, and he makes the most of it, tickling and brushing and setting fire to her skin.

 

It feels all new and yet vaguely familiar at the same time. The delicious slide and stretch of him inside her, his quiet grunts, the pulsing of her blood in her ears. Experimentally, overcome by curiosity, Carol circles her hips a little on her way down. She shudders at the same time that Daryl groans – a little too loud. Quickly, she slides her right hand up his chest, two fingertips pressed slightly against his lips. Their eyes meet, both darkened and obscured. Softly, Daryl purses his lips into a kiss against her fingertips, nodding in understanding.

 

After that, he takes over control a little. His hands slide down across her chest, calloused fingers cupping the weight of her breasts and brushing over the hardened peaks. Sparks of electricity shoot through Carol, and even when his hands move further down to her hips, she still feels their echo. Daryl gently steers her hips, beginning to slowly thrust up into her. It is still tender and dragged out, almost lazy in nature.

 

Despite the lack of urgency, Carol feels the muscles in her abdomen tightening, a familiar coil gleaming hot and white. Everything is heightened in intensity, even just the rough pressure of Daryl’s hands guiding her movements.

 

It consumes her, the warmth that seeps through her veins. The trust that breaks free like wings bursting from her back.

 

 _Daryl, I- oh_ , she forgets what she wanted to say when Daryl sneaks a hand beneath the swell of her belly to where they are joined, slipping over slick flesh and sending her brain into a maelstrom of pleasure. Under his touch, she decides that whatever she had been about to say could not have been that important in the first place.

 

Time becomes a fuzzy blur, even the ticking of the clock on her bedroom wall fading away, drowned by soft pants and muttered curses. Eventually, Daryl’s thrusts become more erratic, some of the tenderness taken away.

 

Carol can tell that he is trying to hold back, eyes shut tightly, hand gripping her hips to prevent her from moving all together. He looks almost in pain, and she hates the sight of it. Leaning forward as much as she can, Carol presses her lips against his collarbone. _It's okay_ , she whispers, her damp breath absorbed by his sweat-slicked skin.

 

A deep grunt, almost obscene, is his response, and then he does not hold back anymore, thrusting up into her a few more times, his fingers slipping from between them to her shoulders, pressing her against him.

 

When he comes inside of her with her name breaking from his lips, Carol does not mourn the loss of her own release. Instead, she rests her forehead against his heaving shoulder, hands slipping between his back and her mattress. This time, he does not move to push her away when her fingers trail delicately along the scars that he must carry.

 

He presses a soft kiss to the top of her head, hands splaying across her lower back, fingers running soothing circles there. The aftermath is peaceful and quiet, and Carol can feel her heart swelling in her chest. It requires a few minutes before she can will herself to move, slipping her sore limbs from Daryl's body.

 

With an exhausted sigh, she comes to rest on her side, craning her neck until her head is propped up on the pillow. Daryl turns only a little, his head facing hers. Almost shyly, he reaches out to smooth a strand of hair from her forehead, plastered against her sweaty, flushed skin. When she smiles, he leans forward, pressing his lips against hers. _Y'alright?_ His voice is hoarse, a low grumble.

 

Carol nods, unwilling to let the kiss end just yet, brushing her lips across Daryl’s one more time before curling into his side, her eye lids fluttering shut, lashes tickling his ribs.

 

* * *

 

 

He has just finished buckling his belt when the bedroom door opens quietly, and Carol slips through the crack on bare feet. Other than that, she is fully dressed – and unlike him, not in the same clothes as last night.

 

With a tense expression, she looks him up and down, lips pursed. Then she sighs, and Daryl feels all his hope deflating.

 

He remembers falling asleep with Carol's back pressed against his chest, stray strands of her hair tickling his chin, his hand spayed across the swell of her stomach, feeling their child move restlessly for a good long while. He had listened to her breaths growing more and more even, before finally, sleep claimed him as well.

 

Waking up naked in an empty, cold bed had been a punch in the guts. But to see her now, standing across the room with her arms folded defensively across her chest, that is tearing the skin off his bones.

 

Moonlight floods in through a crack in the curtain, mingling with the yellow glow of the bedside lamp he'd switched on after waking up. One quick glance at the ticking clock on the wall tells Daryl that it's just after seven in the morning, but the sun has not yet risen. Suddenly, the cold of winter seems to manifest in the room.

 

 _You need to leave_ , Carol says tensely, keeping her voice down. She's avoiding his eyes now, he can tell.

 

At her distant tone he begins to wonder what the hell he has done wrong this time. _What's the matter with ya?_ he asks, mimicking the quiet tone of her voice, taking a careful step closer. When she retreats, he freezes.

 

 _Sophia's going to be up soon, you need to leave before that_ , Carol explains, bending down to pick up his socks, tossing them across the room. He catches them easily, but makes no move to put them on.

 

Confusion pounds behind his temples, a dull ache throbbing there. _Is this cause ya don't want Sophia to know I stayed the night or cause ya throwin' me out?_ The latter eats at him, disappointment beginning to wilt away whatever joy he has felt last night. It seems silly of him to be this shaken by the prospect of rejection when his entire life has been an accumulation of disappointments.

 

Carol shakes her head, taking a deep breath, releasing her next words in a hushed whisper. _This was a mistake._

 

Daryl feels as if she just pulled the ground from beneath his feet, standing there like a fool with his socks clutched to his chest. Panic rattles his bones, a cold chill running down his spine. _What?_

 

The unease in Carol's expression and in the way she carries herself is evident, and it is clear that she is dreading his questions, eager to see him leave. _This is how we ended up in this mess in the first place._ The edge of her voice – slightly annoyed and patronizing – stirs anger inside of him. When her hand finds the swell of her stomach, something bursts inside of Daryl.

 

 _This ain't a mess_ , he hisses angrily, taking another wide step. There's still too much distance between them.

 

Carol sighs again, seemingly at a loss for words. _You know what I mean._

 

The way she says it, he might as well be the town's idiot, the apparent sense to her words lost to him. _No, I don't_ , he replies, raising his voice above the earlier hushed murmur. Ignoring Carol's panicked shushing, he vaguely points to their unborn child. To their future. _Might've started as a mess, but I thought we're past that._

 

It takes him a moment to understand, but when he finally realize that he feels betrayed, Daryl stops walking up to her. His self-doubts begin to rise to the surface, nagging questions that he knows will drag him into darkness all over again. Has she used him this whole time? What has he been to her all these months exactly? A distraction? A provider? No, that can not be. He can not be that blind.

 

 _Just..._ The tears that glisten in her eyes are proof of her own fight, but he can not bear to withstand the blow. _Please leave._

 

For a few seconds, they stare at each other in disbelief. Whatever sensation of belonging here he has grown to relish in these last few weeks, it turns to ashes in his heart.

 

 _That's bullshit_ , he throws at her, grabbing his shoes from the floor. With trembling fingers, he reaches behind her, pulling open the door. His footsteps thunder unevenly against the floorboards as he puts on his socks and shoes, and he does not turn around to look back upstairs when he grabs his bike keys and helmet from the small table by the front door.

 

Glass rattles when the door falls shut behind him, and as he strides across the gravel driveway, his breath turns into white mist in front of him, tears prickling in the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, was this chapter a pain in the ass. The smut especially did _not_ want to be written. I struggled so much with it – it nearly resulted in tears and a fade-to-black. But I've been drafting this chapter for weeks, and did not want to resort to that. I hope the result is more enjoyable to read than it was to write.
> 
> Just a heads up: the next chapter will most likely be a little delayed. I'm spending the Easter weekend at my parents' place, so I won't have time to write/upload. What I will do is try to get the next chapter up by Friday, but I can't promise that I'll actually get that done. If not, I will be back at my place on Tuesday, so that's when you can expect the next chapter at the latest. Sorry for the wait :(


	8. week thirty four.

**week thirty four.**

 

_Is that all?_ Carol eyes the navy blue duffel bag with a creased forehead. It is dumped unceremoniously on her doormat, next to a small cardboard box, a laptop that has seen better days balanced precariously on top, and Daryl's shiny black helmet.

 

_I ain't movin' in_ , Daryl huffs, taking the bag and flinging it into a corner, knocking over her winter boots. That earns him a glare to which he only responds with a mild blush tinting the tips of his ears where they peak out from beneath his shorter hair. It still looks unfamiliar, but it reveals more of his face. That is reason enough to approve of the change.

 

_Well, you are essentially_ , Carol quips, popping another blueberry into her mouth. It bursts on her tongue, the sweet yet tangy flavor drawing a quiet hum from her lips . _For a little while_ , she adds quickly when she notes how Daryl suddenly freezes, his helmet dangling from his fingers.

 

He eases up a bit at her reassurance that this is a temporary solution. Neither of them are ready for more just yet, and they still tread so carefully along this rubble path, Daryl especially. Carol feels a familiar wave of guilt at that thought, not blind to her own part in his recent hesitation.

 

Her hand finds the small of her back, aching under all the extra weight, and she watches in silence as Daryl heaves the last of his stuff into her hallway. The door thuds quietly when he closes it, and suddenly this is real. Much more so than she could have imagined it, and has imagined it over the last two weeks.

 

Suddenly, it is not so difficult to understand why Daryl appears so frightful.

 

_Hey sweetheart_ , Daryl says with a quick wave and a warm smile directed at someone behind Carol. It is not a difficult task to deduce who he is talking to. Still, she turns just in time to see Sophia's head popping into the door frame of the living room. Her little girl wears an excited smile, the prospect of Daryl living with them even for a short while having rendered her giddy and restless for days in advance. Now, she is practically beaming, a sight that warms Carol's blood, spreading wings in her chest. Then, just as quickly, Sophia disappears again.

 

Almost instantly, Carl’s head cranes around the corner, replacing her. _Hey, Daryl_ , he mutters, saluting him with a proud expression, the fake sheriff’s hat and badge pinned to his Ninja Turtles shirt perfecting the image. Just like Sophia, he quickly retreats, not even offering Daryl enough time to reply. Then, not twenty seconds later, noise begins to drift in from the living room.

 

_What's that?_ Daryl asks, shrugging out of his vest and jacket.

 

_Lego Star Wars is on_ , Carol explains, her hand moving from the small of her back to the swell of her stomach, feeling the unmistakable kick of a tiny foot against her palm. _I'm surprised they said hello at all._

 

With a gruff chuckle, Daryl finally crosses the distance between them. His own hand easily falls into place next to hers, a smile tugging at his lips just before he presses them against her cheek.

 

They are a little rough and dry against her freshly moisturized skin, but it all fills Carol with too much joy to be bothered. Fingers interlacing with his, she turns her head just enough to find his lips in a chaste but proper kiss. He tenses but a little before responding, sighing when she pulls away.

 

_You can take that up later_ , she whispers, feathering her lips against his, noses nudging. Daryl nods, lost in her eyes. The blue is still timid, and his thumb draws nervous circles against her belly. Then, stealthily, his free hand finds the berries in her other palm. Carol releases a pearl of laughter when he slips one into his mouth.

 

They remain close for another minute, close enough to breathe each other in. Every now and then, Daryl's eyes flicker down to where she knows he can feel their baby move. That gift is no longer solely hers.

 

_So, it's Valentine's Day soon_ , she eventually murmurs with a grin, brushing a stray strand of hair from his temple.

 

_Don't tell me ya care 'bout that load o' crap_ , Daryl grumbles, taking a step back but keeping his hand in place. It gives Carol more room to take him in, but she already misses the warmth radiating off him, and the pull of his smile.

 

_Not really_ , she shrugs, truthfully. _But I just thought we still might do something nice._ She does not need flowers and chocolate and a fancy restaurant. Ed bothered with all that for the first few years, and now it only weighs as foreshadowing of the facade of her marriage on her mind. _I mean, we'll have Sophia. And Carl. So-_

 

_Nothing R-rated?_ Daryl actually smirks at his own words, for once taking Carol by surprise. Moments like these, the teasing banter that once came so naturally, have been chaste and far between lately. She scared him away and chased him into his old shell. Now, it is a slow process of giving him enough room to come back into the light.

 

_I'm the size of a barn_ , Carol replies with fake horror. _There's a good reason we haven't done anything R-rated in a while._

 

She tilts her head to one side, pride and happiness blooming in her chest in equal measure when her words paint his cheeks in the slightest shade of pink.

 

He casts his eyes down towards the ground, scratching his chin. It is a protective move that still speaks of his vulnerability. But when he looks up and closes the empty space between them, he seems sure. _Nah, y'ain't._ It is just above a whisper, hoarse and spoken a mere breadth of a second before he captures her lips in a kiss.

 

The dampness of his breath still tingles on her skin when Daryl's hands frame her face, the kiss deeper and more searing than any they have shared recently. A small sound escapes from the back of her throat, close to a whimper.

 

When they part, she can feel herself panting slightly, her hands having somehow found their way around his neck and into the shorter strands of his hair. She gently scrapes her nails against the base of his skull, cherishing the sigh that her touch evokes.

 

_I can't even put on my own shoes_ , she chuckles, looking down between them.

 

_That's why ya wearin' them things?_ Daryl asks with mockery in his voice. Carefully, he nudges the tip of his heavy boot against the fluffy pale blue slippers that envelop Carol's bare feet. _You look ridiculous._

 

Carol sticks out her tongue, stepping on his foot with all the force she can muster. It does not faze him at all. Instead, he smiles and kisses her again, softer and with care, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones.

 

_Now that you're here, you can help me put my actual shoes on_ , she murmurs against his lips, not quite willing yet to end the kiss. It is too sweet to be with him like this. Almost all her fears have transformed into hopes, and the handful that remain she shares with him. They carry their load together now.

 

_Thought I was movin' in ta help with the kid_ , Daryl says, dropping a kiss to the tip of her nose before finally, dreadfully, pulling back.

 

He smooths his hands from her cheeks down her neck and feathering across her shoulders. _It counts_ , she assures him, catching his hands in hers before he can drop them entirely. His palms are calloused from work, and the feeling reminds her of the smell of motor oil that he always carries. _So, do you think you can take some time off for Valentine's Day?_

 

He ponders on the question for a moment. _I'm boss now, can do whatever the fuck I want_ , he states with a proud glint in his eyes. Carol chuckles, raising her eyebrows. _In theory_ , he adds, but the matter seems settled for now.

 

Carol marvels at how much everything has changed. In the last few months, her life has been turned upside down. But these last few weeks have been golden and sweet, a bright star in the night of her recent life.

 

The sun has risen for them, and it still dawns on Carol how precariously close she has been to casting it all away out of fear.

 

_Oh, yesterday was officially my last day at work, by the way_ , she declares as he steps away, eying his stuff on her floor.

 

_They found someone?_ he asks, kneeling down to pry open the cardboard box. Carol catches a brief glimpse at book spines and other odds and ends before he shuts it again. He seems restless and a little out of place. She expected it, if she is being honest. But he had been eager at the prospect of being present and hands on, to be given a chance to be the father he so desperately longs to be.

 

_Yeah_ , Carol confirms, suddenly weary of her own inhibitions. But the future is expanding before them, and she is finally ready to accept the shadows that her past will always cast. Reaching out to rest a hand on Daryl's shoulder, she basks in the glow brought on by hope and promise. _She starts tomorrow, and can stay until June._

 

The matter of when she can return to her work on the farm - which she enjoys so much, both because it has her reminiscing about days gone by and because it is much like being welcomed into the Greene Family - is not yet settled. She is torn between wanting to return as soon as possible and staying home with the baby. And with Daryl only just settling into his new position, it is a discussion they have delayed for now.

 

They will figure it out, though. Carol is sure of that. No matter how close she had been to shattering them like a house built from glass. The cracks are still there, like veins in the facade. She can see them in the fearfulness in Daryl's eyes, and sense them in her own caution.

 

But they did not break. Did not crumble.

 

Neither of them ever has.

 

six weeks earlier:

 

The knock on his door doesn't do much to rouse his motivation to get out of his bed. With his arms crossed beneath his head, Daryl stares up at the blank ceiling, watching the changing shapes of the shadows cast by his blinds.

 

He can not remember ever feeling this... lost. There is no other word for it. His initial anger has simmered down, the confusion became too heavy to bear. He cares too much for Carol to allow disappointment to seep into his bones.

 

After months of his life finally falling into place, she has thrown him away, cast him out like a wet dog.

 

Another kick and he groans.

 

For the first time in his life, Daryl knows that he allowed his walls to come down and bare his demons. She cherished him, even the scars he wears as a grim reminder. And then, as if nothing between them ever mattered, as if he has not given her and her children - his child - double of what he can, she tore off his scabs and dragged her nails through his wounds.

 

The knocks become more and more insistent, like a machine gun firing mercilessly. It's probably Axel, coming over to give him shit for calling in sick today for the first time in eight years. Back then, he'd fallen down a hill and straight into a creek while hunting. Sure enough, like the idiot he is, he didn't just fall flat on his ass. Instead, he landed on one of his bolts, effectively running it through his torso.

 

He'd even showed up at work the next day, until Dale angrily sent him home when he found out. Only 'home' back then had been a ratty and nearly empty trailer. Daryl will never forget the inhuman level of embarrassment when Irma Horvath knocked on his door with a knitted yellow cardigan, all with a lacy collar and pearl adorned buttons, a weeks worth of home-cooked meals neatly stacked in little plastic containers piled into a white basket.

 

He never wanted to be on the reviving end of her well-intended but tortuously pitiful smile again. And so he dragged his sorry ass to work through every flu and bug in the years that followed.

 

Axel, the son of a bitch, can stay away, he thinks as he swings his legs off the bed. It creaks when he stands, and stars flicker, obscuring his view for a brief moment. He blinks them away, annoyed to find a fresh wave of wetness in his eyes.

 

The last thing he needs today is for Axel to see him cry like a damn kid.

 

Thundering down his hallway, he notes the blue light casting from his phone where he dropped it on the table by the door.

 

Twelve missed calls.

 

Briefly, he pauses, wondering. But then he decides that he'll deal with Axel first, no matter how pissed he is about that already. He's never been the type to lock himself in his room when times get rough (he does not count those times when he was a little kid and locked himself in his closet when his old man hollered and his mama cried). Usually, he throws himself into work. That is the main reason he has managed to hold on to a job for ten years, unlike Merle. And if work was not distraction enough, the solitude of the woods usually soothed rage as much as misery.

 

One way or the other, dealing with Axel is surely the last thing on the short list of helpful things to do.

 

He pulls the door open with force, an angry snarl ready on the tip of his tongue. But it is not Axel who stands on the other side with red, swollen eyes, tear streaks running down freckled cheeks and two slender arms wrapped around a trembling torso.

 

Carol looks miserable. There's simply no other word for it. About as miserable as he feels. Her eyes flicker between his stoic face and the worn carpet beneath their feet, struggling to carry the weight of his gaze.

 

_Can I come in?_ she asks with a voice that stutters and trembles, yet is thick with tears still dwelling in her eyes.

 

Briefly, Daryl considers telling her no. Shutting the door and returning to his self-induced isolation and the misery it offers. He does not yearn to listen to halfhearted apologies. To be honest, he is not sure he can take anymore punches today.

 

Instead of protecting himself, he steps aside to give her room. She might have hurt him carelessly and with cruelty, but he can rise above that. There's no need to hurt her in return.

 

She walks past him slowly, loosening the pale blue scarf around her neck a little. If she feels remotely close to how he feels, then she must be suffocating.

 

Daryl stares at the door for a good minute after shutting it, waiting. He can feel her crystal clear eyes burning through the back of his skull, but silence engulfs them, neither of them able to word the turmoil in their minds.

 

_Daryl-_ Carol finally whispers, and the broken sound of his name proofs too much. He can not stand the sound of it, not when it erases all the times she has spoken it with a smile on her lips.

 

_Y'ain't gotta apologize_ , he presses out a little harsher than intended, finally turning on his heels. _I get it._ Those words he adds more quietly, scratching his chin. In a twisted and strange way, he really does get it. There is next to nothing he can offer her. Quite the opposite, he is probably a burden. But Carol is kind and sweet, and probably crushing under the weight of knowing she hurt him this morning. That's why she came here.

 

He hasn't bloody mattered to anyone his whole life, and he sure as hell does not matter right now. There is only one important thing, and that is their baby. He'll take all the punches necessary to make sure his son or daughter is loved and cherished and fucking sure he or she matters a shit ton to him and Carol.

 

_No, you don't_ , Carol quickly opposes, taking a step closer to him. In response, he retreats, an instinctive movement that only intensifies the guilt dominating her features. _You don't get it._ Her words might have stirred anger inside of him, but when her voice trembles, he keeps his own mouth shut, and listens. _I am so sorry about this morning. I hurt you, and I never wanted that._

 

Daryl can not contain the scoff, crossing his arms in front of his chest. How could she throw him to the sidelines like so many other people in his life without knowing of the consequences?

 

For a moment, his reaction seems to discourage her. What on Earth did she expect him to do? Then, slowly, she begins to nervously knead her hands.

 

_I wanted it. Last night._ She's had his attention before, but at those words, Daryl feels his heartbeat pick up a notch and his brows furrowing. Whatever he expected, this is not it. _That wasn't just a spur-of-the-moment thing_ , Carol adds, swallowing deftly. Then something shifts. It is plain as day. Her eyes clear, revealing sparkling blue. The tension in her shoulders eases. Hands drops elegantly by her sides. She raises her chin, certainty suddenly overpowering guilt and shame.

 

_I love you_. The words are spoken loud and clear, and yet Daryl struggles to make sense of them. Nobody has ever... _I realized that when I woke up this morning and you were right there._ She hardly gives him a moment to process her confession, pulling him under her spell. Almost instantly, he recalls the smooth warmth of her in his arms as he fell asleep last night. He mourns the loss of not waking up the same way. _And I want that. Every day_ , Carol continues, despair slowly working its way into her voice.

 

Daryl can not understand. None of it makes an ounce of sense.

 

_And that scared the hell out of me_ , Carol continues, nearly out of breath and with a pleading expression highlighting her features. _Not wanting to be alone, that's ruined my life before._ And then, quietly, realization dawns on Daryl. He still feels hurt and betrayed and abandoned, all familiar sensations. But a small light is beginning to flicker in the depths of him.

 

_I didn't want you to leave_ , Carol reassures him, seeking forgiveness in his eyes. He longs to just give it away, but a lifetime of cruelty holds it at bay for the moment. _But you know me. And I know you._ Those words ring true, and mean more to Daryl than the three loaded ones she unleashed before. _You'd have figured it out._

 

In two strides, he has crossed the distance between them. He is still too scared to touch her, afraid that she will bolt again, or for this to be a cruel dream, one in which his touch turns her into ash. No, she would never turn to ash. Even in his darkest dreams, she'd always crumble into stardust.

 

_Already have_ , he murmurs reassuringly, his hands hovering just an inch away from her own. He has figured it out, she's right. Last night, he saw it in her eyes, heard it in the hitch of her voice and felt it in her touch. Only then, he could not understand. Love is a foreign concept to him, yet also rooted as an instinct somewhere deep down. He understands it now, why she brightens his life the way she does.

 

_I don't regret it_ , Carol mutters, tears slowly beginning to glisten in her eyes once more. Then her hand moves to rest against the swell of her stomach, momentarily brushing the back of his own hand. The small and accidental touch sends a wave of prickling shivers through his system. _And I don't regret this._

 

It is a relief beyond bounds to hear her speak those words out loud.

 

_All I regret is hurting you like that. I get how hard it is for you to trust me at all._ Daryl swallows, hating how well she knows him, and how easy to read he is to her. She shifts on her feet, bringing herself a little closer into his space. _And I- I screwed this up, didn't I?_

 

He nods, jaw tensing. _Sure as hell made me feel like shit_. The words, while spoken quietly and void of anger, visibly make her flinch. But Daryl realizes he can only protect her so much. He needs to learn to be vulnerable, and yet protect himself.

 

_I was scared. But I think you are, too_ , she whispers, a hopeful glint in her eyes. _So maybe we can figure this out together? I mean, if you still want-_

 

He has always hated talking, and knowing that any more words will only set free the tears in her eyes, he breaches the remaining distance. Carol yelps in surprise when he claims her lips with his own, but it only takes her a second to recover before she melts into the kiss. Her clever hands sift through his messed up hair, while his own hold her steady by her hips. It is tender and a little shy, almost as if last night never happened, and yet tinged with familiarity.

 

This is right. And while he can feel the fear so ever present, he finally has the words for all that swirls so restlessly through his mind.

 

He loves her. He loves her so fucking much.

 

present day:

 

Carol's been quiet for the better part of thirty minutes, the episode of Breaking Bad they'd been watching playing without commentary from either of them. Binge watching the show had been her idea, and their main source of entertainment these last few nights. She is leaning against his chest, legs touching his, her hands drawing absent-minded pattern against his thighs. Sometimes she inches too close to the inside of his thigh, sending tiny shock waves through his system.

 

But he does not miss how tense she is, almost rigid against him, paying next to no attention to the events on the screen. Sophia has been asleep for a good long while now, even the faint echo of the Frozen soundtrack drifting down the stairs from her room having faded into silence early into this episode. All the dishes are clean and put away. There is no immediate reason that springs to Daryl’s mind for Carol to be this absent.

 

_Y'okay?_ he asks quietly, his mouth close enough to her ear that he can feel her slight shiver, and relishes in the feather-light tickle of her hair against his nose and cheek. Her hands cease their movements, fingers curling into his leg just above his knees.

 

_Mhmm..._ Carol hums, dropping her head to rest it against his shoulder. Softly, he presses a kiss to her temple, lingering to breathe her in.

 

His nose draws a little circle against her hairline, where auburn curls are wild and free, quickly growing out of control. _Wanna talk about it?_ he murmurs, hoping that he's not being too pushy. This is not his strongest forte, talking. He never feels the need to talk about things, about worries or pain. Yet, the older he gets, and especially now that Carol has pulled him out of his shell, Daryl begins to understand that words are not really his worst enemy.

 

Carol sighs, going slack against him. Carefully, Daryl folds his arms around her, one hand finding hers. The way her head is propped against his shoulder, he can see that she is watching their fingers intertwining, forming a tight yet tender knot. _Ed called_ , she finally reveals, swallowing. Immediately, Daryl feels his pulse picking up speed. He remains quiet, though, giving Carol room to breathe. They rarely ever talk about him, and every time he comes up in conversation, the subject is dropped as quickly as possible. There is no room for that bastard in their lives, and he does not deserve to ever be mentioned. _He found out about the baby._ Carol squeezes his hand a little tighter, and when her free hand comes to rest against her belly, a rush of panic shoots through Daryl’s veins. She's terrified, even right now on this peaceful evening, cuddled up in his arms, she is still afraid.

 

They are both quiet for a minute, the television having become background noise. Daryl wonders idly how long Carol has been keeping this from him. A week? A couple of days? Just a few hours? He does not blame her for it – it is, after all, very much her own decision to open up about her ex-husband, in whatever shape or form. But to think that she has carried the burden of his call for even a breath of a moment, all alone, is enough for Daryl to pull her closer into his chest. She should not have to carry the weight alone, not when she has done just that for so many years.

 

_He wasn't too thrilled, no big surprise there_ , she eventually continues with a shallow laughter that is stuck somewhere between hysteria and a heavy sigh. _Called me a crack whore, and had some other choice words about you._

 

Daryl's fingers tighten around hers. _Son of a bitch_ , he spits through his teeth. Carol smooths her thumb along the back of his hand in response, effectively calming down the rage that has begun to simmer in his veins. She is so calm, her voice steady when she speaks again. _He said he wouldn't stand by and watch me ruin Sophia's life._

 

He couldn't care less about what Ed fucking Peletier has to say about him. For all he cares, the bastard can call him whatever he wants. But he's tortured Carol enough, in so many ways he can only barely fathom, and even in his absence, he is still a constant presence that keeps her from taking flight.

 

_That asshole has nothin' on ya_ , he reassures her, reaching up to gently tilt her chin. She looks at him reluctantly, chewing her lip with white teeth, eyes closing on a sigh.

 

_I don't think he'd ever really go through with it_ , she shrugs, soundly only faintly confident. She is a fighter, and by far the strongest person he has ever had the privilege to come across. But even in the shadow of Ed's memory, she suddenly seems to whiter like a flower in the frost, always and forever condemned by her memories. _He'd love to see me in pain over losing custody, sure. But he'd never want to burden himself with his daughter._ Her eyes open then, just as Daryl begins to feather his thumb across her cheekbone. Blue eyes turn watery with the chill of fear, and in the confined space between them, she can not hide any of it. _But... what if he does?_ Her whisper breaks on the second syllable, the unmistakable sound of her throat constricting. _What if he shows up again and wants her for himself?_

 

_The two of ya got a divorce, and ya had a kid with someone else. This ain't making you a bad mother_ , he reassures her, fighting to make himself sound as confident as she needs him to be right now. He stands by his words. Carol is the best mother any kid could hope for, and there is not even the slightest reason why she should be punished. Still, in the back of his mind, a nagging thought will not leave him alone. Not for the first time, Daryl fears that his name, his family's reputation, the ever looming impact of his father and brother – he can not shake the horrific possibility that it might all come crashing down and destroy Carol's life. It has destroyed his, time and time again. He never deserved that, either. But it came with being a Dixon, the only family heirloom ever passed down to him.

 

If Ed really wanted to go through with this... No. Daryl shakes off the thought. Never in his life has he broken the law. He's stayed away from Merle's friends, has never touched drugs. Unlike any other member of his family, he's managed to hold on to a decent job, even got promoted. Ed has no more on him than he has on Carol. Except one thing: people's imaginations.

 

Carol reaches up to rest her hand on his, keeping it still there for a moment. Her breath is warm against his wrist, and she looks so delicate, all pale skin adorned with freckles, long lashes that cast the most intricate of shadows, watery eyes that glisten with hope and fear alike. Then, slowly, yet with determination, she pulls his hand away from the porcelain of her cheek.

 

It takes a second for him to understand why.

 

_You know what he did, don't you?_ Carol whispers, eyes zeroing in on his jawline. She must be able to see the way it tenses at her words. Still, he nods, ever so slightly. _I never pressed charges. I just wanted it to be over_ , she sighs, releasing a long breath. It tickles against his throat, and between them, her fingers curl into his. They rest, intertwined, on top of her stomach, squished awkwardly between his hard chest and her soft breasts. He can feel the steady _thump thump_ of their hearts, and even the occasionally slide and bump of their baby. _I didn't want... to explain myself to lawyers, and to drag Sophia into all of this._ Carol suddenly sounds full of regret, and he can see a million untold tales unfolding in her wide eyes when she looks up at him. _But if he wants her back, then-_

 

_Hey_ , Daryl interrupts her, moving his hand to cup her cheek. He has to crane his neck to really see her properly, but the pain is a small price to pay. Her voice had cracked like asphalt in the summer heat, releasing all her strength right before his eyes. He can not let that happen. _He ain't gettin' her._

 

It is a promise muttered against her skin, and he can feel the chaste and hesitant tug of a smile on her lips when she presses them against his scruffy cheek. _Thank you_. It is nothing but a whisper swallowed by his own skin, but it is coated in a thin layer of hope. In his arms, some of her fear is carried away.

 

* * *

 

 

She really should have taken another one of her throw pillows upstairs. Carol can not shake off the thought as she wiggles on the bed, a mountain of pillows stacked behind her so she can sit up. One more and she might actually be comfortable.

 

Lazily, she props the baby name book against her stomach, her nightshirt pulled up beneath her breasts so her hand can feather across the smooth skin. She yawns as her eyes scan the list of girl names with an E for the fifth time in the last ten minutes, a smile tugging at her lips when the unmistakable blunt shape of a knee presses into her palm.

 

_Looks like a damn alien_ , Daryl chuckles as he steps out of the bathroom door he'd left open earlier. The air is thick and moist, steam swirling from his exposed chest. He has a towel tied securely around his waist, his hand smoothing back his hair. This wet, it looks pitch black. Carol laughs, looking down at the bumps in her stomach. He has a point.

 

The mattress dips beneath his weight when he crawls onto the bed with her. Briefly, she wants to tell him off for getting the duvet wet, but then he puts a warm hand on her belly, leaning forward to press his lips just above her belly button.

 

_Did you use my shampoo again?_ she asks, taking a deep breath, unable to fight the sweetness of the moment.

 

Daryl's blush is mostly masked by his already flushed skin, but he gives her a sheepish grin that is answer enough. _Only a bit_ , he hums against her stomach before sitting back on his haunches. _Mine's empty._

 

Carol giggles, reaching out to ruffle his hair. It is a mess in an instant, and Daryl grunts in disapproval. _Well, I hope you left me some_ , Carol quips, shutting the useless book and throwing it onto Daryl’s side of the bed. _Going to take a shower, too._ Getting out of bed from her rigid position against the pillow fort proves a challenge nearly beyond her. She nearly looses balance as she leans forward, grunting when the weight of her belly has her falling over. Her hands, however, are quick to find purchase on the mattress. The unmistakable sound of Daryl's suppressed laughter reaches her ears, and Carol has her death glare ready as she turns.

 

He simply smirks at her, crossing his arms in front of his damp torso. When the pale blue throw pillow hits him squarely in the face, he tumbles backwards, nearly falling off the bed. But just like Carol, he quickly regains balance, watching with gleaming eyes as Carol manages to slide her legs off the side of her bed. Bare feet touch the cold ground, sending a chill up her thighs and spine until it raises the small, dewy hairs at the base of her skull.

 

_Watch the step, it's a death trap_ , Daryl grunts out, and Carol can hear him shuffling around on the bed even without looking as she crosses the room. _Think I broke my toe last night._

 

She snorts, grabbing a towel from the stack she left on her dresser earlier. _Sorry, Pookie_. All her life, she has lived in this house, and not once has she slipped on or bumped into the singular step that leads into the shower. To be honest, she's surprised Daryl did, considering that he's not exactly clumsy. They had a good laugh about it, nonetheless.

 

Leaving the bathroom door open, she finds the mirror fogged, a thin layer of moisture covering every inch of her sink and counter. With a sigh, she drops the towel onto the toilet seat. The laundry hamper is filled to the brink, Daryl's greasy overalls peaking out. Briefly, she considers cracking open the window to release some of the humidity, but the February air is still unforgiving, and she does not want to bother with goosebumps and chills under the soothing heat of the shower.

 

_Want me ta pick up Sophia when I get home from work tomorrow?_ Daryl calls from the other room, and Carol turns to look as she pulls the shirt over her head.

 

Wearing gray sweatpants, Daryl stands by the bed, fingers frozen around the hemline of his black shirt. Carol feels her shoulders squaring when his eyes drop down to her exposed breasts, just briefly, before flickering to her face. Her cheeks are already flushed, partly from the heat and partly from Daryl’s gaze. _If you don't mind?_ She smiles gratefully at him, lazily folding her shirt before placing it on the damp counter.

 

The sound of strong footsteps is muffled against the carpet of her bedroom, but when she turns, Daryl is right there, leaning against the door frame, shirt abandoned. _Course I don't._

 

She does not hesitate to cross the remaining distance between them, pressing her lips against his without ceremony. It has become the most natural, and still the most thrilling new thing, being close to Daryl. He responds eagerly, hands sinking into her hair, which is beginning to frizz in the humid air.

 

_Don't take her to the baby store again_ , Carol pants when she pulls away, the kiss having deepened much more than she intended it to. Daryl clears his throat, eyes flickering down between them, and Carol softly slaps his arm when she catches him staring at her naked skin.

 

_That was one time_ , he defends himself, holding his hands up in defeat. Shaking her head, Carol begins to untie the ribbon that holds her pants in place.

 

_And she'll keep buying all the baby brother things she can find_ , she explains with a titled head, eyebrows raised. Daryl seems to finally give in, the two plastic bags full of 'World's Cutest Baby Brother' shirts and onesies still waiting to be unpacked on the changing table next door. It had been sweet of him to take Sophia, but her little girl's determination to have a brother paired with Daryl’s general enthusiasm for buying anything that might come in handy... Well, Carol does not trust the two of them much anymore.

 

_Can't believe we still don't know_ , Daryl sighs, reaching out to brush a hand against her belly, wonder apparent in his eyes. He is made up of insecurities and fear, but in these fleeting moments, Carol can see crystal clear how pure his heart is, and how close he is to bursting with affection.

 

_It's your kid_ , she says, her pants pooling around her feet. With a bare foot, she kicks them away, not at all eager to bend over and pick them up. Daryl might as well do that. _Just as stubborn as you._ She winks at him, grabbing the towel.

 

_I ain't stubborn_ , Daryl scoffs, and Carol snickers when she turns her head and catches his mildly offended expression.

 

_Sure_. She nearly bursts out laughing as she steps into the shower, throwing the towel over the glass separating it from the rest of the room. Through the fogged and water-stained glass, she can see the outline of Daryl’s body, trembling a little as the sound of his laughter carries through the air.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah. Finishing this was a close call, let me tell you that. Work killed me last week, and I barely had a minute to write over the weekend. But I managed it somehow, and I hope that after the last chapter's cliffhanger-ish ending, this will give you guys the answers you wanted. I was pretty anxious about it, to be honest.
> 
> There is only one chapter left, and I'm both exciting and sad about it. My goal when I started this story was to finish it before the finale airs, and considering that I don't have to work this week, it might actually still be a possibility. For now, I hope you liked this :)


	9. week thirty seven.

in the rise and fall  
of a newborn’s chest  
like the ocean swells  
we inhale, exhale and reset

 

_Overture_ , Sleeping At Last

 

**week thirty seven.**

 

Carol does not understand where all this blood is coming from. The unique scent of it, like iron, is pungent in the humid air, bile threatening to work its sour way up her throat in response to it.

 

It is everywhere, speckles of it like paint all over the tiles, smeared grotesquely along ceramic and pale, wet skin alike. It mercilessly drenches a towel that has fallen in a messy pile by her side, white cotton quickly turning crimson.

 

_Mommy!_ Somewhere distant, she can hear a small, terrified voice. The sound of it is familiar, awakening a deeply rooted instinct to respond. But even when she tries to speak, no words seem to form on Carol's tongue. All that slips past her lips is a strangled groan. _Mommy!_ Wood rattles as someone pounds on the door, upsetting it in its frame, miles away.

 

A sharp pain tugs inside of her belly, deep below, ringing in her ears and rendering her blind for a horrific moment. Why am I on the floor? Carol wonders as it passes and reality begins to slowly fall into place, feeling the hard, cold tiles beneath her, slippery from water and blood. The pain shoots through her again without warning and her body twists in response, desperate to bend and shape around it.

 

_Mommy, please!_

 

A scream tears from Carol's throat then, piercing and sharp, ripping painfully at her vocal cords. A dull thud welcomes her once her own voice has died down, exhausted, the weight of somebody small throwing all their weight desperately against a resistant door. It is in vain.

 

Looking down at her open, trembling hands, Carol traces the deep gashes in her palm and down her lower arms, blood pooling against pale skin. In it, she can vaguely make out her own reflection, yet hardly recognizes herself in the violent shades of red.

 

She can, however, make herself out so much clearer in the shards of a broken mirror on the ground, plenty of them scattered all around her almost as if they were part of a ritual, a sacrifice. Some are larger, allowing her to see the blood trickling from her slightly parted lips, and the wide terror in her own glossy eyes. Others are shattered so finely that they resemble sparkling dust, and yet, they are just as sharp, just as dangerous.

 

Something sticky coats the inside of her thighs, warm and dark.

 

Faintly, she recalls the dull sensation of falling, of the ground vanishing from beneath her bare feet. In that dimness, the echo of a smash and millions of small shattering noises are hidden, a memory she only very slowly begins to uncover through her pain.

 

_Mommy!_

 

Sophia. It is Sophia's voice. Realization finally manifests with a shuddering clarity. But Carol still can not speak up, can not tell her little girl to call an ambulance. To call anyone. To get help. Already, her sight begins to blur, the bathroom turning into smears of white and red, the air thick and damp as she struggles to draw more of it into her lungs. The sound of Sophia's desperate pleas are slowly growing faint, becoming a mere distant echo that remains for a short while even when everything else has turned to darkness.

 

Until finally, all that is left is pitch black silence.

 

* * *

 

 

Daryl rolls his eyes when his boot knocks over the plastic cup holding a wide array of pens, mostly recent advertising gifts, others having dried up sometime in the last century. He props his feet more securely on his desk, not bothering to pick up the mess he made, scattering the pens all over the worn wooden surface in the process.

 

His chair is at least a decade old, squeaking and creaking alongside his every move, doing absolutely nothing for the knots in his shoulders and the never-easing tension in his neck. With a sigh, he moves his head from side to side, waiting for the satisfying _crack_ of his joints which never comes. Just his luck.

 

Music drifts in from the garage, the damn door as thin as paper. The vibrations of the bass hum through every surface in his crammed office, crinkling the black coffee in his mossy green and chipped mug. There'd been a pine tree on it once upon a time, the faint outline still visible. Fatigue resting in his bones, Daryl takes a large bite out of the sandwich that Carol left on the kitchen counter for him this morning, wrapped neatly in white paper. A smile tickles his lips when he thinks back to her annoyed groan when his phone rang to wake him at 6 am, the way she had giggled sleepily when he kissed the exposed back of her neck. Crawling out of their warm bed when she was still curled up beneath the sheets, that must have been one of the hardest challenges he's ever had to face.

 

Crispy bacon crunches between his teeth, the greasy flavor quickly making up for a shitty day.

 

Two customer complaints, an unpaid bill from before Thanksgiving, a clogged toilet and Axel nagging him about a pay raise for the third time this week – Daryl can think of at least a thousand ways he'd rather spend this Saturday.

 

Of course, Dale had warned him about the many downsides of running this place, and he'd worked for the man long enough to understand exactly what he was getting himself into. He does not regret taking over, relishing in the sense of pride over being in charge. Still, he feels stuck in the adjusting period, fighting sleepless nights bend over sheet after sheet of paper, numbers twirling in his head. In those moments, he misses the simplicity of disappearing beneath the hood of a car for a while, forgetting the world around and all its troubles.

 

Walking into the garage for the very first time is still a vivid memory. His hair a spiky mess, a patched up backpack full of worn schoolbooks slung over his shoulder, eyes downcast as Dale Horvath greeted him with a smile. Daryl had stumbled over his words like a fool, kicking his worn boots against a lonely screw on the ground as he asked messily for a job. Hoping the kind, gray-haired man would not demand to know the origin of the fading bruise around his right eye.

 

Brushing a few stray crumbs of bread from his shirt, he casts a glance at his computer screen. Five new e-mails, a seemingly infinite to-do-list, and most horrifyingly, the clock telling him it's only just after one in the afternoon.

 

The sudden sound of his phone ringing in his pocket drowns the curse he's been about to mutter under his breath and with a mouth full of bread and greasy meat. It vibrates against his thigh insistently. As he fishes it out, he wants to smack himself for smearing his dirty fingers right across the screen. But when he takes in the name illuminating the screen, the greasy smear becomes the least important thing in the world.

 

He knows something is wrong immediately. For months, he has had this number saved in his contacts, and never once has the name popped up on his screen. No calls, no messages. Except for now.

 

_Lori Grimes_

 

Swallowing the bite of his sandwich so quickly that his throat protests, cramping up uncomfortably and preventing him from breathing for a second, Daryl presses the green button.

 

_She okay?_ he rasps, not even managing to lift the phone up to his face all the way before the words have left his mouth. His breathing seems to have stopped all together, a thick rope tied around his chest, suffocating him, cutting into his lungs.

 

_Daryl, you need to get to the hospital_ , Lori presses, her voice sounding far away and obscured by a static rush. She's in a car. _Now._

 

He's already throwing his sandwich onto his desk, paying no attention to the grease now drenching a stack of papers. _What happened?_ he asks, terrified of the answer, pushing back his chair. It screeches against the linoleum floor, surely leaving behind another row of scratches.

 

Keys jiggle as he fumbles for the right one, small and worn. It surprises him that he has the nerve to actually shut the safe, struggling to fit the key into the lock as Lori speaks distantly from the other end of the line.

 

_She slipped in the shower. Took down a mirror, she lost a lot of blood_. The safe clicks shut, and it doesn't take Daryl more than three seconds to cross the room and pull open the door to the garage with so much force that the hinges whine in protest. It smashes furiously into the wall, the sound echoing in the wide space. The shower. The bloody shower. In his mind, all his nightmares become reality with nauseating detail. _Sophia found her and called an ambulance_ , Lori continues, sounding out of breath, her voice muffled by what he assumes are tears. _I'm Carol's emergency contact._

 

He's crossing the garage with wide strides, pressing the edge of his car key into the flesh of his palm. The pain is sharp, the metal nearly breaking his skin, but it's not remotely enough to distract him from a very different type of pain. One that edges its way through his vein like tar. _The baby?_ His voice hitches, and he can feel the eyes of his colleagues following him as he marches on.

 

Lori is quiet for a moment, for much too long, and the urge to throw his phone against the wall is almost too aggressive to resist. This can not be happening. Not now. Not when everything is finally settled, and he feels happy for the first time in... For the first time.

 

_I don't know_ , she finally sighs, a broken sound that is lined with so much compassion and pity that it makes him sick. Looking around the busy garage, he struggles to stay upright. _They're taking her into surgery._ Fucking Christ. He should have been there. Should have done something about the damn step. Instead he'd dealt with a fucking clogged toilet while Carol bled out on the bathroom floor, all alone. And Sophia. Sweet Sophia who's had to endure too much already. His nails bite into his palm, nostrils flaring with rage and utter desperation alike. _Can you get there?_

 

_On my way_ , he presses out, on the brink of tears. With quivering fingers, he ends the call, stuffing his phone into his back pocket.

 

He never deserved any of it. Carol, who loves him without pretense. Sophia, who beams so brightly and has the magical ability to brighten even the most dreadful day. A place to call home, to shut out the world. The baby they have been so restlessly exited about. None of it should have been his. This is the universe reminding him of that.

 

_Axel!_

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Carol notices when she allows her eyes to flutter open for the barest bit, is a bright white light. It burns, and she she quickly squeezes her eyes shut, still seeing an irritating dot of white illuminating the darkness behind closed lids.

 

The smell of sterilizer and cleaning solution, mingled with the faintest hint of blood and gauze, instantly reveals that she is in the hospital. This is a familiar smell, one she knows by heart down to the very base note. She has carried it for months, after it soaked into her hair, into the layers of her clothes, even into her skin. No amount of scrubbing with even the most exotic soaps could ever quite erase the stench of a hospital.

 

Opening her eyes again, now a little more prepared for the white light that greets her, Carol finds herself grasping at a faint memory. It is not the fall that is blurry in her mind, the reason she is here. No. She remembers that in all its vicious details. What she can not quite hold on to is the reason why she is feeling so calm right now, unfathomed by the loss of blood and searing pain in her stomach that she recalls.

 

She has been awake before, she realizes, the blurry white light slowly beginning to shape into a square lamp, less bright and more focused. Her eyelids still resist, blinking rapidly. Even though Carol can not remember exactly what happened when she awoke earlier, like a dream that slips through her grasp like sand the more desperately she tries to hold on to it, she understands that everything is fine. The comfort of that knowledge prevails, despite the fact that its origin is now a riddle to her.

 

Feeling numb to the pain she knows she must be in, and deaf to the beeping noises of the machines that she is hooked up to, Carol turns her head on the soft pillow. Just barely, but it is enough for the light to fade away and something entirely different to take its place.

 

Her eyes take in the sight of Daryl, hunched over in a particularly ugly orange chair. His vest is draped across the armrest, and he's wearing a different shirt than the one she remembers him putting on this morning. Wait... Was it this morning?

 

In his arms, he is cradling a fluffy white blanket. Within a second, she recognizes it as Sophia's old baby blanket, a little worn around the edges and with a stain or two that never properly washed out. She dug it out of a box a few weeks ago, folded it neatly on the changing table. Daryl must have brought it, and the thought alone is enough to blur Carol's sight with tears.

 

He rocks the tiny bundle gently, eyes focused on what is hidden there with so much wonder and admiration, never straying, as if only a single star was left in the sky, the center of all light and innocence and beauty. Right there in his arms.

 

Almost mechanically and full of an instinctual longing, Carol lifts her arm from the scruffy hospital sheet, a searing pain shooting all the way from her palm up towards her elbow. A small sound escapes her lips, a sigh melting into the slightest hint of a pained whimper. That, combined with the tiny movement of her arm, draws Daryl's attention away from the baby cradled against his chest.

 

_Easy, stay down_ , he says quickly, his voice kept low. He sounds tired, the words hoarse and tainted by a lack of sleep. Carol drops her hand in response, her face contorting slightly as the pain briefly grows in intensity from the impact before fading into nothing but a prickling sensation.

 

Daryl eyes her with concern for a second, scanning her features, gaze flickering down to her arm. When she follows his line of vision, she notes the bandages wrapped around her palm and up her lower arm. Right. The mirror.

 

The loud noise as she took it down in her fall, smashing it against the tiles. The edges digging into her soft flesh. The stench and warmth of her own blood coating her naked body.

 

Shuffling pulls her out of her blood-soaked trance, and she looks up in time to see Daryl raising from the chair. His knees crack as he stands, and she does not miss the slight roll of his neck. But none of it matters in this moment, not when he takes the necessary step closer that brings him right to her bed, leaning down enough for her to catch a glimpse at the bundle he holds with such care.

 

_That's our son_ , he whispers, clearly on the brink of tears. All Carol can do for the longest moment is to look down at the sleeping, peaceful face that is almost swallowed by the blanket. Her chest constricts painfully, her heart picking up speed like a race car, overwhelmed by the warmth and love that pours into her. Her body remembers this, the tingle of her skin, raw and exposed. The vulnerability of her heart, almost as if her ribcage was torn open, the strong muscle unprotected. Vivid memories of holding Sophia for the very first time hover in her mind, tinged with a bittersweet melancholy. Now, joy is predominant, relief washing over her like a tidal wave.

 

It's alright. Everything is alright. She tells herself that over and over, a manic mantra to remind herself of the fact, to cement it in her brain and heart and every fiber of her being. They are alright.

 

Tears dwell more insistently in her eyes, and she never even considers fighting them from spilling over. As they trickle down her cheeks, leaving salty trails, Carol finally does lift her hand, the pain nearly forgotten for a short while. Ever so slightly, she brushes the tip of her index finger along her son's cheek, warm and so incredibly, unbelievably soft.

 

In Daryl’s arms, he looks as tiny as a peanut, almost lost, and yet cradled with so much gentleness, and so very safely. _Sophia must be out of her mind_ , she mutters with a smile and through the raindrops of tears, ignoring the sharp sting of her cuts as she draws a line from their baby's hairline down to a round chin.

 

Daryl chuckles, the mattress dipping under his weight when he sinks down to sit on the edge of her bed. She marvels at how slow and careful he moves, mindful of the tubes that connect her to the machines. _She wouldn't put him down_ , he says, moving to balance their son on one arm as his other hand carefully drapes a gray tube a little further up the mattress. Carol's eyes briefly follow it, all the way up to the monitor and to her vitals that are written in bright colors. Everything is alright. They are alright.

 

Daryl scoots a little closer. _Rick took her an' Carl for ice cream_ , he continues, a smile evident in his voice. Carol's eyes have fallen back towards their son, watching him breathe, a tiny belly and chest rising and falling beneath a mossy green onesie. Her finger trails down the miniscule bridge of his nose, bumping against the tip before outlining the shape of his rosy lips. She sighs, overwhelmed, when her fingertips sift through the softest, dewy curls of dark blonde hair, cradling his head in the palm of her hand. _Lori went back ta ya place ta grab some stuff_ , Daryl explains with a voice so tender that it draws Carol's attention towards him. His words have her sighing, her friends' generosity beyond anything she could have hoped for.

 

Daryl seems almost terrified to break the moment, and in order to reassure him that this is right, that he belongs here, Carol grants him a smile so bright that she can feel the endorphins releasing in her system with a million fireworks. It soothes him for a moment, but all too quickly, the air shifts. _Y'alright?_ he asks, worry and concern suddenly written in bold letters all over him – the timid expression on his face, the piercing gaze of his eyes, the hunch in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. _Scared the piss outta me._ Carol wonders how he must have felt, just as he reaches across the distance to cup her cheek in his warm palm, rough and calloused and tender, brushing a tickling strand of hair from her temple that she has missed until now.

 

_I feel groggy_ , she replies in truth, keeping the dull pain in her stomach and the throbbing behind her eyes for herself. He must have endured enough uncertainty, and she does not want to taint this moment. Not again. Back when Sophia was born, she'd been so preoccupied with her fears. This moment now is her second chance, their second chance. _Was I awake earlier?_ she inquires, still incapable of forming a decent memory. Her face scrunches up in pain when she moves to sit up, waving dismissively as Daryl tries to help.

 

_Yeah_ , he hums, wiping away some glistening tear trails with the pad of his thumb. A grin spreads mischievously across his face. _Mumbled some nonsense._ They both break out laughing, Carol gently slapping his forearm where rolled up sleeves expose some skin. It is a moment so light that it carries on with ease, and only when a tiny sound reaches their ears does their pearly laughter fade.

 

They both look down at their son, squirming ever so slightly in his sleep, probably stirred by the sudden foreign noise. A sweet sound escapes his lips again, high-pitched and bubbly.

 

_I want to hold him_ , Carol whispers, the familiar longing tugging in her chest once more.

 

Daryl moves carefully, his palm leaving her cheek to cradle their son's head. With an ease she has not quite expected, he places the bundle of tiny arms, legs and fluffy fabric into her waiting arms. Under the small weight, her wounds protest, and Daryl seems to sense her struggle, keeping one strong arm placed securely beneath their son's back.

 

One small arm escapes from the blanket, dangling in the air for a moment, five miniature fingers adorning a tiny hand. Carol reaches for it with her index finger, running the pad of it against a delicate palm. Almost instantly, she finds herself trapped in the sweetest grasp, strong and holding so much promise and reassurance.

 

_We made that_ , Daryl whispers, moving to sit beside Carol, one arm slung across her shoulders. He smells of soap and motor oil, a welcome distraction from the hospital stench.

 

_Yeah, we did_. Her voice flutters like a butterfly's wing as she leans down, pressing her lips against their son's forehead, whispering her next words into the soft, warm skin. _I'm glad we did._

 

Her nose is tickled by tufts of soft hair, tiny puffs of breath dampening her cheeks.

 

Daryl's hand moves from her shoulder to her chin, gently lifting her head and steering it to face him. He leans down, his lips finding hers with ease. The kiss is soft, full of gratefulness and affection, sweet as honey. When he pulls away, Carol can clearly see the wetness in his eyes, not allowing him to stray too far when she leans up far enough to brush a stray tear away with her lips. It tastes salty and clear. Like a promise.

 

Settling her head into Daryl's shoulder, Carol sighs contently. This moment is as near to perfection as she dares to believe. _Little Olaf_ , she quips. Daryl scoffs in response, his entire body trembling and vibrating with laughter by her side.

 

_Stop_. She laughs, fondly remembering Sophia's determination, suddenly feeling a pang of sadness that her little girl is not here right now. Then, as her laughter ebbs into a smile, she trails her fingertip along the pale blue name tag around her son's fragile wrist.

 

They spend a few minutes like this, quiet, marveling at the sleeping baby in their arms.

 

_Got somethin' for ya_ , Daryl eventually mutters, sounding as if the fact just popped into his brain again, a little hurried. The mattress shifts as he reaches beneath him to rummage through his back pocket, grunting a little when his seated position proves to keep him from his goal. Curiously, Carol looks up at him, surprised and a little unsettled to see how shy he suddenly appears.

 

_You didn't get me a push present, did you?_ she asks with a smirk, raising her brows at him. It would be very unlike Daryl to buy her a diamond necklace as a reward for birthing his first born son. That thought alone nearly has Carol snorting.

 

Her question catches Daryl off guard, and he stops rummaging for a moment. With a confused expression, he stares at her, looking so silly that Carol can not suppress the light chuckle anymore. She is careful, though, not to move too much, ever aware of the baby balanced in her exhausted arms.

 

_A what?_ Daryl asks, sounding a little horrified. He pulls his hand out from beneath him, something hidden inside the cage of his curled fingers.

 

_Forget it._ Carol shakes her head softly, eyes flickering down to his hand when he holds it out. His fingers uncurl slowly, revealing a small, rectangular box, enveloped by black velvet. Against her better judgment, Carol feels her eyes widen in terror.

 

_Been wantin' ta give this to ya for a while_ , Daryl mutters, clearing his throat halfway through the sentence. _Just figured I'd wait for the right moment._ It is in this moment that he seems to notice the inhibitions written so plainly across Carol's frozen face, and it is not hard to miss how he visibly tenses by her side. _Ain't a ring, don't freak out._

 

Drawing her eyes away from the ominous box, Carol finds her own worries mirrored in Daryl's face. Understanding greets her, softening his blue eyes. Her smile is shy, just a gentle curl of lips that speaks the thank you that her tongue can not quite form. It is a silent conversation that settles the matter, for now. That pens promises in shiny ink for the future.

 

Exhaling rather loudly and through pursed lips, Carol balances their son on one arm, once more grateful for Daryl's physical support. Her fingers tremble, a nervous excitement like tiny sparks in her veins. The box is smooth when she takes it between her fingers, brand new and flawless.

 

She can not for the life of her predict what might be hidden inside. Daryl does not seem like the type of man to simply splurge on expensive jewelery, not even for an occasion as special as this. It must be a waste of money beyond anything to him, given how little he values trinkets and other useless possessions. Driven by her curiosity, Carol flips open the lid.

 

A single look inside, at the treasure resting against pearly white silk, has her heart pounding, nearly leaping from her ribcage. _Daryl... Is this?_ She can only whisper, terrified to tear herself out of a dream or break the spell. Her eyes are drawn to the silver, unable to look away, tears beginning to cloud her vision.

 

_The real deal? Yeah_ , Daryl confirms, his own voice just as low. When she meets his gaze, Carol is met with a wall of insecurity and shyness, nerves raw and exposed as he draws his thumbnail between his teeth. After everything they have fought through over the past months, this is the most nervous she has ever seen him.

 

_How?_ she mouths, the word barely passing her lips.

 

_Found it when I was clearin' out my old man's place_ , Daryl explains, searching for something unnamed as he scans her face. _Ya must've lost it there_. Faint memories swirl through her mind, smoke that shapes into a dark, stormy evening she has long since thought forgotten.

 

Daryl's hand is trembling when he cups her cheek, fingertips brushing softly against her ear, thumb nudging the corner of her lips when they curl into a teary smile. _Didn't ya ever wonder why I just randomly walked past ya place that day?_

 

week one, june 2016:

 

Fuck this. Daryl groans quietly, coming to a halt on the sidewalk. It's a sunny day, glaringly bright, and he's beginning to break a sweat beneath his jacket, tugging at the collar to allow the slight breeze to cool the dampened skin.

 

Scanning the row of houses, he's not even sure if this is the right road. Hell, it's been a decade since he's been here, how is he supposed to know? He'd been in that house once. Once.

 

A damn idiot, that's what he is, standing here in the middle of a nice neighborhood with trimmed lawn and flowers blooming in neat patches. His memories of the road are foggy at best, weathered from being forgotten for so long. The house in question, however, he remembers well.

 

With an annoyed sigh, he pushes himself forward again, boots scarping against the ground.

 

Everything looks different than it would have a decade ago, the cars, the occasional kid running around, phone glued to their palms. Maybe the house has been painted and he'll just walk straight past it. Or maybe, most likely, she or her folks ain't even living there anymore. He can't even remember her damn last name, only that he's vaguely sure she married the Peletier bastard after graduation. That, of course, could be just an assumption, he ain't prone to gossiping, after all.

 

With the sun beaming down, he starts regretting his decision to park his bike at the superstore a mile down the road. Then again, the last thing he needs to complete his humiliation is for an old lady behind a lacy curtain to call the cops because some shady dude on a bike is driving down her nice road at slow speed, checking out the houses.

 

Despite his frustration, something else slows Daryl down, has him wavering even as he begins to recognize certain bits and pieces. The large street light, remnant from the 60s, broken beyond repair for at least that long. The large estate-like house at the corner, high iron fences shielding it from the world. The graffiti on an abandoned garage, the colors faded since the last time he saw it.

 

His fingers dig into the pocket of his jacket, fishing through old gum wrappers, his trusty lighter and a balled up tissue, until he finds the silver chain buried there. Pulling it out, he cradles it in the palm of his hand. It's delicate and tiny, a rose that has seen better days – if it could, it would have wilted by now.

 

It's strange, how all his memories of it have been wiped away until the second it fell into his hands again. Suddenly, it's all so clear, Carol standing in his living room with genuine concern and affection in her kind eyes. The necklace she lost is as delicate as he remembers her being. Elegant. Pure. Daryl feels a pang of guilt for forgetting all about the surely expensive piece for all these years.

 

He'd put off clearing out the old man's place for so long after he bit the dust, afraid to step through the doors again after not having set a foot in it since the day he graduated, dreading all the memories linked to it. But eventually, time wore him out, and the prospect of bulldozing the place into dust became too satisfying to pass on. The very last thing he expected to find was this, tucked away under a loose floorboard in the bastard's bedroom, probably forgotten in a drunken stupor there for years before his death. Half-hidden beneath a dusty bag of Meth, a stash of money and moldy pamphlets.

 

It's stupid of him to consider taking this back to her, to a woman he hasn't seen since graduation, whose goddamned name he just can not recall, no matter how hard he tries, his temples throbbing. Even if she or her folks still live here, they'd probably just think of him as a creep for coming all this way to return this, something he should really have done years ago. She probably forgot all about it by now, considering she never once bothered to ask him about it. Then again, why would she bother talking to him?

 

He should have thrown it into the donation box, it's none of his shitty business, after all. However, there is a nagging thought that keeps pestering him, and has carried him all this way. This might actually have meant something to her. And he had been too weak to hold on to it that night, to keep it out of his father's dirty hands.

 

In a way, he owes her this. Even if his attempt fails.

 

And then he sees it, bright blue just like it has been burned into his memory, white shutters pulled open. The house looks soft and cozy, and like everything he never had growing up. The very opposite of the shack he spent his childhood in, which, and he understands this today, is the only reason it has stayed in his memory so vividly all these years.

 

He'd felt welcome in this house, for one of the first times in his life.

 

Taking a deep breath to prepare for the disappointment or even anger he is surely about to face in a minute, Daryl stuffs the necklace back into his pocket. With his heart beating pathetically fast, he strides down the sidewalk, approaching the house at a steady pace. Might as well get this over with already, after three days of trying to convince himself not to act on his stupid sense of owing something to a stranger.

 

A gravel pathway leads up to the house, green lawn luscious and promising, a few scattered flowers completing the suburban illusion. The breeze of the wind carries the sound of tires approaching at a fast rate, and Daryl turns purely out of curiosity – unaware he just saved his own sorry ass.

 

He turns just in time to see two bright headlights coming straight towards him.

 

Well, _fuck_.

 

the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here we go. I feel like there are a million things I want and need to say, but I'm going to try and keep this as short as I can. 
> 
> This fic has been such a blast to write, no matter how exhausting it's been. 
> 
> I'm sad to let this story go, but also a little excited to bring it to an end. This has been an incredibly time-consuming affair, and I credit your enthusiasm as the main reason why I managed to update this weekly (even if it meant writing large chunks of this story on my phone during breaks at work, in bits and pieces after dinner and before going to bed, and in my head while driving or cleaning my apartment). 
> 
> I hope that the conclusion to this story is satisfying to you, even though I know that a few things are left unresolved. What's the matter with Rick and Lori's marriage? Will Merle ever return, and was Daryl right with his assumptions about his brother's involvement in their father’s dead? Will Ed go through with his threats? Will Daryl living with Carol and Sophia really be a temporary solution? (of course not^^)
> 
> And most of all: what is the baby's name? 
> 
> I decided very early on (I think before I even finished the first chapter) not to mention the baby's name. To be completely honest: I haven't even decided on one. There are two reasons for that. One: I find it very hard to come up with a name that Daryl and Carol would give their child. Two: names are so connected to personal taste, and I did not want to ruin anyone's experience of this chapter by choosing a name you might simply not like. It's not Olaf, in case that wasn't clear. So, I hope that doesn't bother you all too much. 
> 
> Ending this here was always the plan. I started writing the story with the intention for it to be nine chapters long, one for each month of the pregnancy. Having been able to stick to that makes me a little proud, and I am about to start crying, so I'll stop my word vomiting now.
> 
> One last massive thank you to all of you, and I hope this was as wonderful a journey for you as it was for me!


End file.
